Suit and Shades
by aboringday
Summary: A year after the gruesome demise of Martin Madrazo, Tracey DeSanta is free to live the happy life she always wanted with her loving husband, Franklin Clinton. But her life is far from ordinary. She has a secret passion: fighting crime, and her close ties with a certain devilishly handsome federal agent threatens to destroy every relationship she holds dear.
1. Chapter 1

**Omg guys, I'm back! Did you miss me? Lol, I present to you what you've all been asking for: a continuation of Curious Hearts! Warning: You should probably read Curious Hearts before this, or there might be some stuff you don't understand. I tried to make it as readable as possible without any prior knowledge of Curious Hearts, but I can't make any promises. Also, this is a love triangle so, if you're not into that, you're gonna have a bad time haha. ****Enjoy! **

* * *

I yawned, the soft graze of sweetly familiar lips over my cheek roused me from my slumber.

"Tracey, wake up," the low, masculine sensuality of Franklin's voice brought a smile to my face. My husband and I have been sharing the same bed for a year now but waking up beside him still felt unreal, like an amazing dream. How did I get so lucky? "Ain't you late for class, girl?"

"Class?" I murmured sleepily, half-awake. "What class?"

"Your performing arts classes, you know, the ones you been takin' at the university for like three months now." He grinned teasingly. "Ring any bells?"

I struggled to sit up, shielding my weary eyes from the vivid sunlight gliding through the windowpane. "Jeez, that's bright. What time is it?"

He glanced at his gold Rolex. "Twelve o'clock."

"Seriously?" I shot up from bed and scrambled to the walk-in closet, sifting through my vast assortment of clothes for an outfit to wear. _I'm so late. Smith is going to kill me!_

"Can't you take the day off, babe?" Franklin pleaded, his powerful arms circled my waist, squeezing me affectionately. "I could use the help around the house, and with the baby…" He dropped his head to nuzzle my neck, planting kisses and tiny love bites to my skin, the tantalizing caress set my body aflame. Surrounded by man, my brain faltered once the aroma of his woodsy cologne filled my senses. He always smelled so good.

I melted against him, each tempting stroke of his lips subtly urging me closer and closer to him…

As much as I wanted to stay with him, I couldn't. There was an obligation I had to keep, places I needed to be. Maybe I could tell him the truth? No, he'd never understand. It took all the willpower I could muster to pull away from him.

"Frank, I have to go," I slipped on a pair of jeans, shrugged into a blouse, and pushed my feet into the nearest pair of sneakers I could find. "I'll be back tonight, okay?"

"Tonight?" he frowned, his hazel gaze somewhat brooding. "For real? You finna leave me here _all day_ by myself? What am I gonna do—"

"You're gonna take care of the baby, like the hot, amazing dad that you are."

"Uh-huh." He gave my butt a light smack, and then turned away to work on his first household duty of the day: making the bed. "You can save the flattery, a'ight? It won't work. I know you in school and all, but this is a lot of responsibility to dump on one person, you feel me? I thought we were a team—"

"We are a team," I hastily interject. "We've always been a team."

He continued, "I don't mean to give you a hard time, but damn, it's exhaustin' to do all this shit alone, babe. Why don't I ever get a damn break…"

While Franklin went off on his impassioned rant, my phone was vibrating like crazy on the nightstand. **_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. _**High-pitched wailing split the air. Oh no, Emma was awake.

Franklin winced at the sound, rubbing his temples. "Trace, you finna answer that or what?"

I hurried over to my phone and pocketed it. "Sorry, one of my friends from class was calling," I lied, knowing full well it was actually my partner, Smith. "She's probably wondering why I'm so late. I'll check on Emma before I leave—"

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, shooing me away. "Nah, I got this," he grumbled, jaw clenched. "Go, have fun. I'll see you tonight."

My husband was clearly agitated, and I didn't blame him one bit. He had every right to be. In a desperate effort to console him, I cupped his soft bearded cheek, my fingers toyed with the expensive diamond glinting in his ear. "I love you, Frank. So much."

He kissed my palm, a half smile crossed his rugged face. "Love you too."

* * *

Agent Smith steered our black sedan to the curb. Gingerly I sipped my coffee, my stare fixed on the derelict building before us. The exterior was tagged with colorful graffiti, stained with mildew, bullet holes were lodged into the weathered red brick. A small mob of men loitered by the entrance, their bodies covered with gang-affiliated tattoos, and red bandanas were tied to their face. _Yikes_. Those guys were bad news. Anxious-looking strangers hurried past them, as well as the occasional hooker who waddled along in high heels and an uncomfortably skimpy outfit, her drug-addled figure thin as a needle.

The ghettos in South Los Santos were terrifying. There was a tight knot in my gut, every nerve in my body begged me to steer clear of this place. It was dangerous. Anything could happen! "I don't like this, Smith," I said. "What are we doing here again?"

"Eleven-year-old Nancy Jones is missing and it's our moral duty to bring her home safe, agreed?" Smith cut the gas. "According to intel, she disappeared without a trace, no evidence, no witnesses, twelve suspects questioned, not a single arrest. Police are stumped, so the bureau put me on the case—"

"_Us_ on the case," I corrected.

"Right." He smiled apologetically. "Nancy's mother, Shanice Jones, may be able to point us in the right direction."

"Wasn't she interviewed by the police already?"

"Yes. She maintains her innocence. However, I am not entirely convinced."

"What about the father? Are we questioning him too?"

"We would, but no one knows where he is. From what I gathered, the father skipped town shortly after the child was born. No social media, no debit card purchases, no phone records, all known acquaintances claim they haven't seen him in years."

"Wow. What a dad," I scoffed. "Okay, let's make this quick. I don't like the look of this place."

With a teasing grin, he replied, "Why so apprehensive? We've ventured into far scarier places, have we not?"

I sighed. I hate to admit it, but he had a point. Over the course of three months, we've gone on multiple missing person investigations. A few of our cases led to dead ends, and we found ourselves with more questions than answers. But oftentimes, our investigations were packed with danger and adventure and tons of bad guys—we put some real terrible, sadistic men behind bars, and saved a lot of lives. Sure, it was scary, but the satisfaction of solving the case made it all worth it.

Agent Smith clasped my shoulder, his protective touch calmed my jittery nerves. "I am with you, love," he said, his voice quiet, completely composed and cool, his lips tipped into a smile as if he hadn't a worry in the world. "Do not lose faith. Together, we can do this. We'll crack the case. Together, we can do anything."

I nodded, his pep talk renewed the courage within me. "Let's do this."

We stepped out of the car. With my trusted partner taking the lead and me following closely behind him, he confronted the gang of men blocking the building entrance. "Pardon, coming through—"

A big, hulking man with an obnoxious amount of chains dangling from his neck pushed him back. "Hold up, playa." He gave Agent Smith a once-over. "Nice suit. You a cop? Private detective or some shit?"

"FIB," Smith flashed his badge. "Now stand aside, and try to be less of a tosser, will you?"

The hulking man turned to his buddy next to him. "Yo, what the fuck he just call me?"

"A tosser," his buddy replied. "Don't know what that means, but it sounds mad disrespectful, bruh. You gonna let some FIB bitch talk to you like that, Cadillac?"

The hulking man known as 'Cadillac' stomped up to Smith. Although he was a wide, muscular man, Cadillac seemed rather small due to my partner's abnormal height. He gazed up at Smith with heated, open hostility. Smith stared down at him, silent, his brows arched over his black Aviator sunglasses.

Cadillac lowered the bandana covering his face, "You must be new here. In case you ain't heard, this is my hood, motherfucker. The concrete you standing on belongs to me, the curb you parked your whip on belongs to me, the air you breathin' right now? All that shit belongs to me. I don't care who the fuck you think you are, or whatever badge you got—my word is law around here. The cops work for me." He grinned, his gold teeth glimmered in the sunlight. "There ain't nothing you can't buy in Los Santos, you dig?"

I narrowed my eyes. Did he seriously have the cops in his pocket, or was he full of crap? Trying to scare us off with intimidation tactics and lies? He was slowly reaching for something tucked in his jeans, a gun most likely! My heart jerked, the muscles in my stomach clenched in panic. I yanked on Smith's jacket, a silent warning that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

Unlike me, Smith seemed to be unfazed by the dangerous situation unfolding before us, his shoulders high, hands folded behind his back, and expression a stoic mask of unbreakable composure. Finally, he broke his silence, "This neighborhood belongs to you? Ah, I see. Forgive me, I must have missed the memo. I have no intention of meddling in your business. All I ask is that you grant us passage so we may visit a friend, if you would be so kind."

"You trippin', cus'," Cadillac replied. "Ain't nobody here stupid enough to be cool with a fed." He whipped out a handgun from the depths of his jeans and took aim at Smith. "I'm tired of wasting my breath, man. Take a walk, or take a bullet, bitch. What's it gonna be?"

Although it was best to steer clear of armed maniacs, I stepped in front of the gun, staring into the barrel with lethal determination. I wasn't going to stand by and let my partner get killed. I had to do something. "We don't give a crap about your stupid gang, or your guns, or your drugs—whatever illegal crap you have going on—_we don't care_. We're here to visit a friend. So how about you let us pass already so we can all get on with our day?"

Cadillac gave me a vicious glare, his brown eyes bulging from the sockets. His muscles quaked, the gun in his grasp trembled. _Uh-oh._ He's pissed.

Smith took my hand and pulled me back. He was facing the gun now, more than willing to give up his life for me as always. Reaching for the solid strength of his arm, I clung to him, palms damp and stomach queasy as I held onto a silver of hope that he'd do something, anything to defuse the situation.

A coarse-faced man with dreadlocks tapped Cadillac's shoulder. "Yo, boss, they're engaged."

Cadillac glanced at the ring on my finger. His tension-filled expression faded abruptly, he lowered the pistol. "Y'all together?"

"Yes!" I blurted. "We are totally in love and engaged to be wed, right Oliver?"

"Why, of course we are." Like a doting lover, Smith draped his arms around my shoulders and drew me in for a hug. "Look at her! Isn't she lovely? In all my life, I never thought I'd find a love like this."

I squeezed his clean-shaven cheeks. "Honey, you're embarrassing me."

He cupped my chin in his hand, and gravitated closer. His scent surrounded me, a clean blend of leather, and cologne. His sunglasses falling to the tip of his nose, a pair of twinkling blue eyes stared at me, alarmingly intense and filled with tender longing. Sunlight glimmered over his tall frame, illuminating his square-cut jaw and straight nose.

_Wow. _I don't think I've ever been this close to him before. His hair! Short, moisturized, and trimmed, there wasn't a single strand of ash blonde out of place. His brows were perfectly shaped, plucked carefully by a steady hand.

I envied his tailored suit, and clear, youthful skin, completely devoid of bumps and unpleasant blemishes, like some superstar straight out of a movie screen without the expensive plastic surgery or makeup. His cheeks were dusted with just the right amount of tiny ginger colored freckles—not too dark, not too light, and the single beauty mark adorning his right temple contrasted pleasingly with his pale complexion.

The guy was flawless, his dapper, well-groomed features so impeccable, so symmetrical, that anymore delicacy would have made him far too beautiful for a man. And the worst part was, he didn't even know it.

How did he do it? What was his secret? I _need_ to know his skin care routine, like yesterday. I skimmed a finger over the nape of his neck, counting the small moles dotting his freckled skin. _One, two, three, four… _

A sheepish smile played at the corner of his mouth, his proud cheekbones blushing red. "Forgive me," he murmured in that charmingly accented voice of his. "Try as I may, mere words truly aren't enough to express my devotion to you. Can't you see? Destiny has brought us together, love."

I froze as his finely shaped nose nuzzled mine, my heart thumped against my chest like a jackhammer, heat sizzling in my veins from his shameless affection. Either he was a great actor, or this was real—I couldn't tell. Wait, no, it can't be. Isn't he gay?

Cadillac squinted at us critically. "Alright, that's enough. This ain't the time or place for none of that cute, kissy-kissy, touchy-feely shit, alright?"

Reluctantly, Smith pulled away, but his grasp on my hand remained firm. "Not fond of PDA, I assume?" he asked.

"Nah, it's just him," one of Cadillac's men budded in. "Personally, I think love is a beautiful thing, man."

The other men nodded in agreement.

"Nobody give a fuck what y'all think," Cadillac barked. "Shut y'all soft asses up." His gaze darted to me. "You and your man wanna get in? Fine, but there's a visitor's fee. Pay the toll or get gone."

I grabbed a handful of cash from my purse and shoved it in his hand. "Here, take it. Now can you please let us through?"

After a moment of counting the money, he moved aside. "Fine by me. And congrats, now y'all have a real nice life together someplace else, preferably outside of my hood, you feel me?"

"Yep, I feel you. Bye forever." I pushed open the creaking building door. _Yes! _Finally, we made it! I pressed a hand to my racing heart. "Jesus, no matter how many times people pull a gun on me, I'll never get used to it."

"Well, that could've gone worse," Smith dusted off his suit jacket with the palm of his hand, casual as ever. "Are you alright?"

"Are you?" I countered, breathing heavily, struggling to regain my composure after our prolonged moment of intimacy. "There was a gun pointed in _your_ face majority of the time, not mine."

"Nothing out of the ordinary for me, I'm afraid." He lowered his shades from the bridge of his nose, his blue gaze scanned our dim-lit surroundings. "Goodness, how unsanitary."

I took a careful step over the cigarette buds and empty beer bottles strewn across the concrete floor, a shard of broken glass crushed beneath my sneakers. The stench of cheap alcohol and mildew lingered in the air. I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. _Gross! _

Smith approached the aged elevator. Yellow barricade tape covered the doors. He frowned. "Unfortunate. Come, love, we'll take the stairs."

"What floor was it again?" I asked.

"Sixth."

I sighed heavily. "Can you carry me?"

"What?" He cocked a brow. "Carry you for six floors? Are you outside of your mind?"

"Pretty please?"

"Tracey, no. You have legs, sweetheart. Use them."

"Come on. I thought we were best friends!"

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "We are. However, friendship and servitude are two different things."

"Oh, whatever. I'd carry you if I could."

"Right. Of course you would."

Glass and broken pieces of plaster crunching underfoot, we began our long ascent to sixth floor. This place was so unsettling. The pitter-patter of unknown footsteps crossed the floor from above, strange groans and creaks came from the walls around us, and the lights overhead blinked on and off repeatedly. We just got inside, and I was already dying to leave.

"Smith, is this place creepy, or is it just me?"

"It is quite foreboding, indeed," he replied. "But we will persevere."

Despite our dark, oddly quiet surroundings, my mind was fuddled by Smith's display of affection earlier. We've been working with one another for a while, and we had good chemistry. Whatever role we needed to play to get the job done, whether it was the traditional good cop, bad cop, or something else entirely, we did it with ease. But this time, it felt different…

"Y'know, Smith," I said, "To be gay—"

"I am not gay," he parried.

I continued, "You put on a really convincing act in front of those bad guys. You had everyone fooled, even me! I seriously couldn't tell if you were bluffing or like, actually admitting that you have feelings for me."

Hands shoved deep within his pockets, my partner grew quiet.

_Is he okay?_ I tapped his shoulder. "Hey, I was talking to you."

Smith's melodic voice grew dull, lowering to almost a whisper. "My feelings are irrelevant. They do not pertain to this case."

"That's not true," I argued. "Since the day we became partners, we've been inseparable. I put my marriage and my kid on the backburner. We spent so many days, and so many sleepless nights working on these cases together, and you expect me not to care about your feelings?"

"This is hardly the time nor place for such a discussion, but I'll indulge you, if it so pleases you." He glanced at me. "Outside, you called me Oliver."

I scratched my head. "I did?"

"You did. After all this time we've spent together, that was the first time you've ever called me by something other than my very boring, generic surname."

"Mr. Secret Agent Man is a better fit if you ask me."

"Amusing," he snorted. "I'd like to believe I am more than my occupation."

"Considering I can't imagine you being anything other than a federal agent, I'm gonna have to disagree with you on that one," I teased. "Sorry, not sorry."

He winced, his expression downturned and grim as if his pride had been severely wounded. "Truly? Am I nothing more to you than a suit and a pair of shades?"

"I'm just joking!" I hugged his arm, yanking him in playfully. "And all jokes aside, I want you to know that it's okay for you to show your feelings every now and then. You don't have to keep them all bottled up inside. This is a safe place, you can tell me anything—"

"You sound like my old therapist." His expression grew somber, pretty blue eyes glinting with sadness like a wounded puppy. "The mere thought of him makes my skin crawl. That egotistical twit—I spilled my heart and soul to that man, my deepest, darkest secrets laid bare before him, my life on the verge of disintegrating to bloody oblivion," he went on with a heavy sigh. "All he ever did was sit in that god-awful chair and stare with those cold, emotionless eyes, judging, judging, judging…and for what? Why confide in a man who never does anything, rarely ever says anything? Such a waste, so many hours of my life I'll never get back—"

I grabbed his shoulders and turned to face him, stopping our advance, as well as his rant. "Smith, are you okay? How long has it been since you've seen your therapist?"

"Erm…it's been quite some time," he straightened his tie, quickly regaining his composure, his face contracted into its usual passive mask. "But I am fine. No need to worry."

_Ugh. _Here he goes again, retreating into that dumb shell of his. I frowned. "You're a lot more sensitive than you let on, you know that?"

He tilted his head slightly and stole a slanted look at me. His strikingly blue eyes met mine. My heart fluttered involuntarily. "Whatever do you mean, love?"

"Um…" I fumbled, rendered speechless by his compelling gaze. What's wrong with me today? Clearly, I was still shaken up by the passionate moment we shared outside. _Pull yourself together!_ "Forget it." We continued our ascent. "So like, I've been thinking. We should totally attend couples therapy together. BFFs need counseling too. My husband refuses to go, he thinks talking to a stranger about his emotions is stupid, but they're not strangers, they're professionals, y'know?"

"Can't say I'm surprised. He can be rather closed-minded, that one."

"He…tries…" I panted, my legs burning from the seemingly countless steps. "Are we…almost there?"

He snickered. "Sweetheart, we are only on the second floor. Goodness, you are out of shape."

"Which is why…you do all the running and fighting…and I do all the brainy stuff."

"Brains? No, you don't have much of that, I'm afraid."

"Whatever…numb nuts." I halted, drawing in air as if I was drowning. These stairs were killing me! "I help you all the time. _Huff. Huff._ You'd be dead like, a hundred times over if it weren't for me."

Smith leaned on the railing, patiently waiting for me to catch my breath. Somehow, he was able to climb this monstrosity of a staircase with ease. Arms crossed, he silently gazed down at me with those keen, judgmental eyes of his.

"Don't look at me like that, it's so degrading." I continued my painful advance up the stairs. "Oh my god, is there someone we can call about that broken effing elevator? Seriously, this is not cool. I'm suffering here. _This sucks._ The owner of this building deserves to be sued! Are all the people living here Olympic athletes or something? How the hell do ordinary people make it up six flights of stairs without dying?"

"Has anyone ever told you you are absolutely adorable when you complain like that?"

My cheeks heated. "No."

"No wonder, because it's bloody annoying. If you spent less time babbling, and more time walking, we would've been at our destination by now."

"_Wow._ Y'know, sometimes you can be a real dickhole, Smith."

Smirking smugly, he glanced at me and winked. "Who's the sensitive one now?"

After about ten years of stair climbing, we finally made it to the stupid sixth floor. "Here we are," Smith approached a green door to the left. The knob was lying on the floor, torn off by force probably. Weird. Who would leave their door open and exposed in a crime-ridden neighborhood like this?

Something wasn't right. There was a stench coming from the other side, so strong vomit clawed up my throat. "Jeez," I coughed. "What is that?"

"Hush now," Smith touched my elbow, urging yet protective. "Keep close, will you?"

I swallowed deep. Who knows what was waiting on the other side? I huddled close to him, clutching his jacket. He drew his gun and eased the door open. Darkness clung to the cracked, narrow walls and water-stained ceilings, the awful, rancid smell grew more and more severe with every stride we took. The peeling linoleum floors were coated in dust, as if no one had frequented the home for quite some time. Except for the dudes yelling downstairs and the annoying blare of someone's car alarm outside, the apartment was uncomfortably silent.

But we weren't alone. In the shadowy bedroom, below the warped fan blades slowly circling clockwise, a garbage bag laid on a bare mattress. There was something stuffed inside. Whatever it was, it reeked. _Bad_.

Smith raised a hand, gesturing me to stay back. He approached the stinky bag and ripped it open. "Bloody hell," he wheezed, shielding his nose with his forearm.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's our suspect, Shanice. Poor Nancy Jones's mother is dead. Looks like a homicide."

My heart dropped. "W-what? Are you serious?"

He wrangled a pair of black gloves from his pocket. "Tracey, do me a favor, will you? Shine a light on me while I examine the body. _Do not touch anything_. No fingerprints, do you understand?"

"Okay, okay." I took his side and rooted through my purse, my hands were shaking like crazy. "Promise me you'll be quick. It smells _horrible _in here." Once I obtained my cell phone, I flicked on the flashlight and shone it directly over the corpse.

"If I rush, I might miss something. It's the little details that count…" Pocketknife in hand, he began cutting through the bag. A mess of bloody, tangled hair peeked out from the plastic. My stomach twisted with nausea, the odor of rotting flesh and bodily fluid—it was too much! I looked away, desperately fighting the sickness swirling inside me.

There was a business card to a mechanic's shop on the night stand. I stuffed it in my purse. Could be a lead. I'll take a look at it later, when I'm feeling better…

"Small blood splatter on the bedframe," Smith spoke into a recorder. "Large gash on the torso, wounds on her face caused by blunt force, possibly a hammer…no signs of defensive wounds, no sign of a struggle, could the victim have been killed in her sleep? No, that can't be right. There's no blood, except the small smear on the headboard. Was she moved? She couldn't have been beaten to death here. Unless…someone went through the legwork to clean up the evidence. Why leave the body out in the open—"

"Shouldn't we call the cops?" I interrupted. "We aren't forensics, dead bodies aren't our specialty, Smith."

"The LSPD?" He rolled his eyes. "Those useless, brainless brutes would sooner ruin the crime scene and tamper with evidence than provide any real aid. It would be best if we avoid the cheeky bastards, for now. I am sure the lot of them are having a grand time terrorizing the innocent, murdering people, committing blackmail and fraud—we wouldn't want to ruin their fun by bringing them here, now would we?"

"We can't just collect the evidence we need and then leave her to rot here—"

"Worry not, I will make the call, _after_ I'm done here…"

Smith's voice faded into incomprehensible muttering as the room began to spin, my skin drenched in sweat. My throat constricted so tightly, I could barely breathe. I staggered a few paces back, woozy, "Smith, I…I don't feel too good…"

He turned, catching me before my legs gave out. Everything was foggy, I tried to stand, but my knees locked, refusing to comply. Dazed, sick, and miserable, I closed my eyes. Smith called out to me, over and over, but I couldn't make out the words. I couldn't even muster the strength to reply.

There was a sudden change in light, the fresh air flowing into my nostrils calmed my queasy stomach. A pair of strong arms kept me afloat, someone was carrying me. Where am I? I forced my eyes open, squinting at the blinding sunlight above.

"Tracey?" A fair, clean-shaven face hovered over mine, a pair of shades concealed the eyes, not a single strand of his silvery-blonde hair in disarray…it was Smith. "You are awake! Are you alright? Say something, love. Speak to me."

I smiled weakly. "I'm okay, I think…"

"Are you? Can you stand?"

I nodded. Smith set me down on the sidewalk, his arm curved around my waist, supporting me. "You are disorientated," he cradled my cheek, his palm was warm, and surprisingly soft. "Must I take you home?"

"_No_. I'm fine." I pulled away, stumbling to the car. With an effort, I climbed into my seat, and Smith appeared at the wheel, his finger outstretched in front of my face.

"Tracey, focus on me. Follow my finger. Concentrate." Slowly, he moved his hand from left to right, up and down. My eyes mirrored his every movement, the fogginess gradually faded away and the world regained its clarity. "How are you feeling, love? Better?"

"Just drive," I murmured breathlessly.

Smith turned on the ignition, the engine roared to life at his command. Once we were back on the road and gliding steadily along with traffic, moving farther and farther away from that crime-infested block, the nausea in my stomach finally ceased._ Oh, thank God I didn't barf…_

I could feel the heat of my partner's gaze on me. "Tracey, you are scaring me. I am taking you home—"

"_I'm fine!_" I blurted. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Until I am convinced. If something were to happen to you—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine, I'm great, I feel amazing, nothing is going to happen to me."

"How can you be so sure? This is a dangerous job. Anything could happen. You fainted out of the blue, I was terrified. I thought you were dying. Do you care anything for your own wellbeing and how it affects others? Think of your family, what will they do without you…" He went on and on and on…

I was seriously tempted to tear my own ears off.

"Smith, can you stop please? You are totally overreacting right now. You're nagging me, okay? I hate when you do that."

His insistent voice cut through my throbbing head. "You are insubordinate, unreasonable, so set in your stubborn ways, it's going to be the death of you. Why don't you ever listen to me? If you were to meet some unfortunate demise under my care, those bank robbing psychopaths you call a family would kill me—"

I glared at him. "Are you kidding me? The only reason you're worried about my wellbeing is because you're scared of Trevor, Michael, and Franklin, is that it? You don't care about me at all, do you?"

He winced as if he's been slapped. "What?"

"You're such an effing asshole." I rummaged through my purse and flung the first thing I could find at his stupid face—a tube of lipstick.

It struck him in the eye. "_Ah_!" He flinched, the car swerved out of control. The blasting _beep beep_ of car horns going off all around us was near deafening. There was a pounding in my temples from all the noise. I had to make it stop!

I grabbed the wheel and steered us to the side of the road. "Smith! Stop the car!"

Smith stomped on the breaks, the tires screeching. I pressed a hand to my chest, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm. _That could've ended badly._

He stared into the rearview mirror at his bloodshot eye, swelled with tears, the right side of his shades had cracked from the impact. My cheeks burned. _I hurt him…_

Despite the pain I caused, his lips curved into a self-deprecating grin. "Now that was quite the throw, love. I daresay I'm impressed."

I turned away, unable to face him. "I didn't mean to…you know…"

"I know." With an exhausted sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat.

I hazard a glimpse at him. His smile vanished, his expression bland once more. Completely unreadable. Why was he always so calm? I hurt him, and it was like he didn't even care. What was he thinking? How could he be so well composed? He was like a freaking robot. "Well? I almost took your effing eye out. Are you mad at me? Aren't you going to say something? _Do anything_?"

He furrowed his brows. "And what would you have me do?"

"I don't know. You could hit me back?"

He grimaced, lips pursed in disgust as if the thought of it alone put a sour taste in his mouth. "Hit you? Goodness, no. That would be most ungentlemanly."

"So you're just gonna let me abuse you then?"

"Apparently, yes. But you'd be surprised how much I can handle." Smith winked his dark lashes at me, the sunlight glinted over his classically handsome face and my heart stuttered. _Jeez. He's pretty. Really pretty. _I clenched my head, shaking the taboo thoughts away. Uh…what was going on again?

Oh yeah, I threw a fit while we were on the road and almost got us both killed. A thick silence oozed between us. I'm such a terrible friend, and even worse of a partner. But maybe I could make up for it. "Here." I set the business card I found at the crime scene on his lap. "It was on the dead lady's nightstand. Do you think it's a lead?"

He opened his good eye and scrutinized the card closely. "Otto's Autos, an automobile parts shop in Sandy Shores. How strange. Shanice Jones does not own a car."

"Seriously? Sandy Shores?" I gaped at the business card. "That place is full of redneck bigots. Why would she go there?"

"Why don't we go and find out?" Smith peeled off into traffic.

"Sandy Shores is pretty far, we're gonna be on the road for a while. Are you sure you're okay to drive?"

"I am fine. Wish I could say the same for my sunglasses," he smiled sadly. "They were name brand, you know."

"Whatever. I'll buy you a new pair, my husband can afford it." I yanked on the seat recline mechanism and stretched my legs, sinking comfortably into the soft leather. "I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up when we get there."

"Yes, of course. Sleep well."

* * *

The rough, playful sensation of fingers squeezing my cheeks jerked me from my sleep. "Wakey-wakey, my dear," Smith greeted me with a wide, dazzling smile. "You snore like a grizzly bear, simply adorable—"

"Shut up," I looked groggily at my phone. Three missed calls from Franklin. _Dang._ _I better call him back soon. _

Smith nosed our car into a narrow spot between two banged up campervans. The merciless desert sun found its way through the window slats, the dry, oppressive warmth made my skin feel like parchment. Ugh, I hate this place. Nothing good was to be found here, it was a wasteland of dirt, roadkill, and ignorant hillbillies. The sooner we were outta here, the better.

Smith and I stepped out into the desert heat. I swept my hair into a pony-tail to accommodate to the rising temperature, and Smith shrugged out of his dark jacket, revealing the white, buttoned up shirt underneath and the gun holstered to his hip. He loosened his black tie, rolled up his sleeves, and then nodded at me, a silent gesture that he was ready. I smiled at his comfortable, yet stylish look. Rarely did I ever see him without that stiff, overly expensive jacket.

Does he ever get tired of wearing that same boring outfit to work every day? Did he even own a pair of jeans? Or a pair of sweats? A t-shirt? I'm sure he'd look great in normal, casual clothes. He'd probably look even better without anything on at all…

I drew in a sharp breath. _Holy crap_. What am I thinking? I'm a married woman who is very much in love with her husband, I should not be having thoughts like this—

"Tracey?" Smith called out, snapping me back to reality. He stood outside of Otto's Autos, hands deep within the pockets of his slacks as he waited for me to join him before entering. "Come now. Time is of the essence."

"Coming!" I jogged to his side.

I strained my eyes on the storefront windows, the glass so stained with dust and grime, it was impossible to see through. There was a filthy bum sitting on the ground adjacent to the door, majority of his ruddy face covered by a crummy, frayed scarf, he held out rusty can of coins toward us, silently begging for a handout.

Careful to avoid stepping on his long, ratty coat, I scrounged my pockets for some loose change and dropped a few quarters into his can. Instead of thanking me like a proper bum ought to do, his gnarled, dirt-encrusted hands latched onto my wrist. I flinched, nearly jumping out of my skin. _Ew, gross!_

"Turn back," the beggar warned, his smoke cured voice barely audible. "Go…go while you still can…"

A handgun appeared in Smith's grasp, he pressed the steel against the beggar's head. "Release her. _Now._"

The beggar set me free, scrambling a few paces away on all fours. He hugged his legs to his chest, rocking in place like some nutjob straight out of a mental institution. Instinctively, I snuggled close to my partner, seeking his comfort, my wrist ached. That bum had one hell of a grip.

The front door of the shop swung open, a redheaded, craggy-faced man with blue, oil-stained overalls emerged from within. Judging by the toolbelt strapped to his waist, and the black smudges all over his pasty skin, the dude must be a mechanic. He scowled at the sight of us. "We all know he's a good for nothin' hobo, but I reckon he don't deserve," he glanced at the gun, "_that_."

"Drifter or not, he should know better than to lay hands on a woman," Smith holstered his weapon. "Are you Otto?"

"Depends who's askin'," the mechanic replied. "You a cop?"

"FIB. A little girl has gone missing, and we have reason to believe a suspect may have passed through here. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do mind." The mechanic pursed his lips and spat at our feet. "Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to lawmen like yourself. Be best if y'all move on, get on back to the big city where ya came from before you two go missing next."

My stomach twisted in knots. Was that a threat?

Smith cocked a brow. "Very cheeky of you to threaten a federal agent."

"Just a friendly piece of advice, Agent," said the mechanic. "Don't take it the wrong way, now."

"Thanks for the advice, but we're not going anywhere," I said. "We have questions that need answering, and if you don't cooperate, you're gonna go missing long before we do, douche bag. So what's it gonna be?"

"Don't got much of a choice, do I?" the mechanic turned away into the store. "Get on in the shop then, I ain't got all day."

I took a step forward to follow him, but Smith slipped in front of me. He took my hand, our fingers intertwined, the pad of his thumb caressed my aching wrist. "Are you alright, love?"

I looked up into the intelligent blue eyes glinting with heartfelt concern for me. "I'm fine, but crap like this wouldn't happen if you gave me a gun—"

"You have asked countless times, and the answer remains the same. No, I cannot give you a gun. You are not properly trained to handle firearms, sweetheart," he stole a furtive glance through the glass door at the mechanic. "Now be on your guard. This one is not to be trusted."

"I have a bad feeling about him too," I mumbled. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Lightly, teasingly, he fingered a loose tendril of hair on my cheek. "Come then. This case won't solve itself."

Hand in hand, we reconvened with the mechanic inside. He had gone back to work, carrying some huge tires toward a rusty pickup truck. The small garage didn't seem to get much business, there weren't many cars, and no customers at all.

"The name's Otto. This here is my shop." The mechanic tossed the tires aside the truck, and swerved around, glaring at us. "I'm sure it ain't much compared to what y'all city folks are used to, but it gets the job done. Now, let me guess, you're looking for a woman, a long-haired negro with a little girl?"

"Why, yes," Smith replied. "How did you know?"

"She barged into my shop a few days ago, demanded I tell her the whereabouts of her baby daddy. Told her I didn't know where the fuck he was, so the crazy bitch keyed my client's car, and stormed out, threatenin' to report me to the sheriff." He pointed at the hood of the pickup truck, the metal marred with scratches. "My customer ain't gonna be too happy about this. Business is slow enough 'round here, I don't need no more city folk waltzing into my establishment and fuckin' shit up—"

"Well now she's dead," I said. "And it sounds like you had motive to hurt her."

"Dead? Someone got rid of her, huh?" An ugly smirk spread across his face. "Well, ain't that somethin'. Poor little girl is gonna grow up without a momma or a daddy."

In an instant, my partner's cordiality toward the mechanic disappeared. Smith approached him. The men were eye to eye, sizing each other up in direct challenge like two fighters in a ring. "She damaged your client's vehicle," Smith stated. "A few scratches on the hood, a couple hundred dollars lost—you snapped, struck her down with a blunt object," he pointed to the hammer within his toolbelt. "Hid the body in a garbage bag…did you kill her daughter too?"

Otto threw his head back and laughed, a humorless, vicious sound. "You are real funny, for a lawman. I didn't lay a finger on that woman, or her snot-nosed brat, you hear me? I ain't gotta answer to you, Agent. The sheriff is the only law 'round here. Now, if you're done wasting my time with them wild, crazy accusations, I oughta get back to work." He directed us to the door with the tip of his chin. "Have a nice day, fuckface."

Smith glowered, the paleness of his skin flushed with color. Tight-jawed and trembling, he was seething, his composure breaking at the seams. I stood back. Whatever was about to happen, I did _not_ wanna get caught in the crossfire.

Suddenly, like a switch had gone off inside him, the severity of Smith's demeanor altered entirely. He grew unnaturally still, his mouth rippled in what may have been an attempt at a smile. "Good day, Otto," he said with seemingly forced civility. "We shall be in touch."

My partner turned on a heel and strode for the door. I shuffled after him. We retreated to the car, only to find the tires slashed, saggy and deflated. My eyes widened. "Oh my god! Smith! Do you see that?"

He squatted down before one of the punctured wheels, inspecting it closely. "Hm…"

Paranoid, my gaze snapped behind me. Otto watched us from behind the glass door of his shop. With that same hideous smirk still plastered on his face, he turned the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED", and then backpedaled away from the window, disappearing into the darkness.

My flesh crawled. What a fucking creep.

I veered around full circle, examining the endless stretch of hot desert surrounding us. I couldn't shake this feeling that we weren't alone, that there was somebody or something lying in wait behind the shadowy cactuses. Adrenaline flooded my system. I wasn't gonna stand here out in the open like helpless prey to be ambushed and slaughtered. No—something wasn't right. We weren't safe here. I was on the verge of having a panic attack, breathless, lungs constricting, warning spasms overwhelmed every fiber of my being.

How are we going to get home without a car? We were stranded! Thoughts of my daughter swept through my mind. She needed a mother. I _can't_ die here…

"Smith," I latched onto his shoulders, shaking him violently. "We have to go. Please, _please,_ w-we have to go."

Tears stung my eyes. He rose, his expression softened at the sight of me. Without a word, he took my hand and we began to walk briskly away from the auto shop, further into town. "We must find the sheriff. His office is nearby."

We crossed the sandy boulevard, the searing heat beating down on us as we passed by multiple mom-and-pop businesses. A group of beer-bellied alcoholics spilled out from a bar, waddling along in a drunken daze directly ahead of us. Smith hooked an arm around mine and took the lead, attempting to weave through the crowd. However, there was one chunky, brown bearded redneck who made it his personal duty to impede our advance.

We tried to move around him repeatedly, but time and time again, the bearded asshole swerved into the way, stopping us dead in our tracks. His friends left him behind as he continued to relentlessly harass us.

"Where do ya think your goin'?" the bearded prick slurred. "You're outsiders. Y'all don't belong here."

I tensed, my chest pressed against Smith's muscled back. We just couldn't get a break…

Smith attempted to reason with him. "Please, we've had a long day. Let us pass, we have no quarrel with you—"

The bearded redneck rose his fist, swinging viciously with his right arm. Smith tipped his head back ever so slightly, miraculously dodging the sudden attack with ease. I gaped at my partner, slack-jawed, as the intoxicated redneck lost his balance and tumbled over clumsily, face-first on the ground. Although I've witnessed Smith's lightning fast reflexes countless times before, I could never quite get used to it.

How many years of martial arts training did it take to move like that?

With the annoying, drunken redneck out of the way, we resumed our sweltering quest through the dangerous town. Every pedestrian we passed glared daggers at us, an unnerving, silent warning to pack up and leave town before it was too late.

Why were people so unwelcoming here? What were they hiding? Did that sicko of a mechanic kill Shanice? What did he do to her daughter, Nancy? I had so many questions, and literally no answers. I needed a moment to think, to talk things through with my partner, but I was on edge, taut as a wire, my mind consumed by dread and unease. If we didn't find refuge soon…

My heart lurched once I laid eyes on the sheriff's office. We made it! I sprinted full speed toward the building, pushing through the double doors. The office was…underwhelming. Cramped. Small. The empty waiting room consisted of a few chairs, and the single prison cell in the back deserted as well, nothing like the huge police stations in Los Santos, overbooked with criminals. Where are all the cops? There was one, at least—a young, brunette lady officer at the reception desk, eating fruit out of a can.

"Excuse me," I approached her. "Can you help me? I'm looking—"

"I'm on break," grumbled the woman, not even bothering to look away from her lunch. She seemed completely uninterested. "Scram. Quit bothering me, outsider."

My blood boiled. _Rude._ "Listen, bitch—"

My partner strode in. "Greetings," he extended a hand over the desk. "Agent Oliver Smith, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Her brown eyes flicked up, widening slightly, cheeks coloring fiercely at the sight of him. She shot up from her seat, tongue-tied, nervously patting down her sloppily wrapped bun, smoothing her uniform. "Oh, um, wow…" She beamed, flustered, starstruck and out of breath. "Who are you?"

"Agent Oliver Smith," he repeated, raising his badge. "And you are?"

She lunged for his hand, shaking it eagerly. "I'm the deputy—Deputy Marie, b-but you can call me Angela."

"Angela Marie, that's a lovely name," he smiled, flashing those pearly white teeth of his, and the deputy swooned, giggling like a school girl.

_Oh, jeez. I think I'm gonna barf. _

"You're a federal agent?" Deputy Angela asked. "Oh, wow. _Wow_. You must not be from around here. Are you from the city? Los Santos?"

My partner answered, "Indeed I am."

"Wow!" She exclaimed dreamily. "A secret agent, oh, wow." She leaned over the desk, her pouty lips only inches from Smith. "Are all men in the bureau as beautiful as you?"

_Yikes. Talk about desperate._

"Beautiful? Me?" As if he had never been complimented a day in his life over his blatantly good looks, his face, neck, and arms flushed crimson. "Aw, how…how flattering. You shouldn't have."

The deputy's hand still clasped around Smith's, she sashayed around the desk, closing the distance between them. "Do you need something, Agent?" Her manicured fingers wrapped around his tie, stroking up and down sensually. "I'm a resourceful woman, you know, being the deputy and all."

"Ah, yes, if you would be so kind…" He grew rigid under her touch, his gaze shifted to me, doe-eyed and pleading like a puppy seeking comfort. "Help would be greatly appreciated _right now_."

Poor Smith. He looked so uncomfortable. Which was weird. Sure, she was a flat-chested, willowy whore, basic in like every way, super desperate_,_ but not unsightly. The average dude would be feeling pretty lucky right now.

However, my partner was far from average, too sensitive and modest for his own good. He was strong, intelligent, observative, borderline fearless most of the time, but froze up like a deer in headlights whenever women came onto him. It was so entertaining to watch.

I thrust an arm between them, giving Smith some much needed space. "Back up lady, my partner isn't an object you can touch whenever you please. He's a human being, not a toy, okay?"

She waved at me dismissively. "He's a man, he can speak for himself, can't he?"

"Not when you're feeling him up like that—"

Smith cleared his throat. "Deputy Angela, I've been assigned a very important case, and I think you can help me. If you could answer some questions, preferably without the touching or fondling, I would be very much in your debt."

As if the remark about touching went right over the deputy's head, she invaded his personal space yet again, caressing his cheek with the back of her knuckles. "Information doesn't come free, Agent. You're going to have to do something for me first, handsome."

Smith swallowed hard.

"Open your mouth," she demanded.

At a lost of words, I stood there, frozen, as the vile woman slipped two fingers between Smith's lips. _Whoa._ She smiled wide, reveling in the weirdly sexual, indecent act of violating my partner's mouth, right in front of me. Tension tightened the symmetrical features of his face. He shivered visibly, the arteries in his neck throbbing violently.

Okay. It's official. Everyone in this town was effing nuts.

I winced, biting my lips so hard, I could taste the bitter tang of my own blood. There was a band of tight discomfort in my ribs. That bitch! I wanted to hurt her—peel her disgusting hands off my partner and beat her until she stopped moving. I hate her. I hate her so much.

Finally, _finally, _she stopped. "You're a good, good boy," she patted Smith's head like an obedient dog before pulling away. "So, what do you wanna know?"

"The sheriff," Smith blurted, his voice shaky and wheezing as if he had forgotten how to breathe. "Where is…the sheriff?"

The deputy returned to her seat, casually filing her saliva-drenched nails as if she hadn't just raped someone's mouth with her fingers. "We got a frantic call from Andy Hamilton's neighbors, claimed they heard weird noises and screaming coming from his place. He's an old feller who lives in a trailer across town, him and his wife are always getting into it. If you wanna find the sheriff, check there. He loves poking his nose in domestic violence disputes."

"Our tires were slit shortly after arriving in your precious little town," I said. "Can you help us? Give us a ride, or something?"

She rolled her eyes. "No."

"But I insist," Smith forced himself to smile. "You wouldn't leave me stranded, would you, Angela?"

The deputy grabbed a pair of keys from under the desk and handed them to Smith. "You're far too pretty of a man to be left out here, high and dry. Wouldn't want someone to snatch you up." She pinched his butt.

He jerked back as if he had been touched by a cattle prod. Muttering a tight-lipped good-bye, he swerved, rushing for the exit. Concerned for my friend, I ran after him.

Night had descended over the desert. Smith was hunched over by the curb, hands on his knees and heaving, on the verge of vomiting. Lightly, I stroked his silky hair, trying to soothe him. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I feel so…" For a long moment, he hesitated. "_Unclean._"

* * *

For a small town, Sandy Shores sure had a lot of trailers, all packed tight together, stretching haphazardly across the park. We tailed the flashing lights piercing the star-speckled night sky, the ugly wail of a police siren led us to the sheriff, slumped against his cruiser outside of what we presumed to be Andy Hamilton's mobile home.

An old loudspeaker pressed against his shriveled lips, the sheriff spewed a warning boisterous enough for the whole park to hear, "Come on outta there, Andy, I ain't gonna ask you again. If you don't comply, I will use force. I repeat, I will use force, and I reckon you're not gonna like it one bit."

We pulled up before a row of garbage bins aligned on the road and met the sheriff by his cruiser. He was a heavy-built man with warty sunburnt skin, a pair of crinkled, emerald eyes peeked out from beneath his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. He was stoop-shouldered, posture slouched like a weeping tree branch. Poor old guy, maybe he had some kind of back injury in the past?

Smith greeted him with a flash of his badge. "Agent Oliver Smith, and this is my partner, Tracey DeSanta."

He lowered his loudspeaker slightly and gave us a once-over. "Long way from home, ain't cha? What're you doin' here? I ain't call for backup—"

Ignoring his questions, Smith asked, "What seems to be the problem here, Sheriff?"

"Got a call from Andy Hamilton's neighbors, sounded like he was beatin' on his wife again, screamin', shoutin', throwin' furniture—the whole shebang. Things got real quiet once I arrived, but I ain't stupid. I know he's hidin' in there with his tail under his legs, shifty bastard. This is my town, damn it, and I'm gettin' real tired of him disrupting the peace. The boy is nuttier than a squirrel turd. He's gotta go, and he's gotta go _now._" The sheriff rose the loudspeaker to his lips once again. "Did you hear that, Hamilton? You either come outta that rat hole of a home right now, or I'll come in there and toss you out myself!"

The sheriff's threat fell on deaf ears. There was no response, except for the pleasant jangle of wind chimes from the front porch.

"Guess we're doing things the hard way then," grumbled the sheriff. He dipped into his cruiser and snatched out a shotgun.

I gawked at the weapon. "Um, with all due respect, Sheriff, is that really necessary?"

"This is my town, little missy. I decide what's necessary and what ain't, got it?" Gun in tow, he marched toward the trailer.

I glanced at Smith. "Well? What do we do?"

"Best we keep an eye on the sheriff," Smith advised. "If something unfortunate were to befall the old geezer before we can question him, we would be, as you Americans like to say, 'shit outta luck.'" His firm mouth curled into a disarming grin, the humidity in the air gave his hair an attractively tousled look, a ringlet of white-blonde dangled over his forehead. My heart did a cartwheel, he had no idea what a captivating sight he made right now, the glow of his smile alone illuminated the night.

**_Crash! _**The sheriff's foot collided with the trailer's front door, kicking it open, the harsh noise jerked me back to reality. "Where ya at, Andy?" he shouted, disappearing inside.

Smith and I barreled after him. Below the cluttered kitchen table, beside a vase of wilting flowers and broken beer bottles lying on the floor, a bare bulb light shone over the petite body of a black-haired woman, her face pale as death and lifeless eyes transfixed on the ceiling. Her flowery nightgown was drenched in blood. _Oh no. What the hell happened to her?_

"God almighty, that's Mrs. Hamilton…" Shaking his head, the sheriff dragged his feet to her side, gently, he checked her pulse. "She's dead, alright. I knew it was only a matter of time. What a mess…" His gaze flitted to us. "Stand aside while I search the premises, don't go touchin' anything neither. This is my crime scene, ya hear?"

The old sheriff limped out the door. Totally disregarding his instructions, Smith approached the woman, slipped on his leather gloves, and touched the bloody, gaping wound on her neck. "Deep incision on the collar bone," he mumbled to himself. "Cause of death appears to be exsanguination from a knife wound, a machete perhaps—"

"Exsanguination?" I blinked. "What's that mean?"

"Excessive blood loss, enough to result in, well, dying horribly." Smith scrutinized the black and white vinyl floor, his trained eye locked on an few faint droplets of blood in the narrow hallway. "Victim was attacked there, in the corridor," he asserted, his gaze drifted to the shattered beer bottles. "She fled to the kitchen, tripped over the beverages…"

"Then she was stabbed in the throat," I completed his sentence and looked away, my eyes dropped to my feet. Whoever this woman was, she didn't deserve to die like that…

Smith swiveled his blue gaze upward, his eyes settled on me for a moment. "The dead—no matter how many bodies you've seen, you can never quite get used to them, can you?"

"No. I hate it." There was rice boiling on the stovetop, on the verge of spilling over. I turned off the gas. Looks like they were about to have dinner. Three plates were on the counter, cold chicken breast on each—wait, there was someone else here? At the time of the murder? "Smith, they were making dinner for _three_, not two."

"Dinner?" he murmured calmly, his focus fully immersed in examining the dead body. "Ah, dinner. That sounds lovely right now. When this is all over, would you like to make a stop at Bean Machine for pastries?"

My mouth watered. Yum, sweets! "Or you could put those infamous baking skills of yours to use and make us a cake? Tiramisu sounds so good right now…" I shook my head. _Focus!_ "Smith, stop distracting me with food! I'm trying to tell you something."

"Sweetheart, you have my ears. I am here to listen, always."

"There was someone else here, not just Andy and his wife—"

A strange man burst out from the living room closet. My pulse skipped. _Holy crap_! He scurried for the window and recklessly flung himself into the glass, shattering it. **_Crash!_** Smith's head snapped in the direction of the man. With those godlike reflexes of his, he immediately sprang into action, bolting after the fleeing suspect.

"Wait for me!" I scrambled behind my partner.

Smith vaulted through the window with grace, hot on the suspect's trail, while I clumsily climbed out and fell to the ground, right on my butt. _Ouch._ Shrugging off the pain, I hopped up and hurled myself forward. The trailer park was laced in shadows. I followed the tall, shadowy silhouettes in the distance. My partner was fast, and the guy he was chasing after seemed to be just as agile, hopping over white fences, and random furniture scattered across patchy lawns.

No way I was gonna be able to perform jumps like that, not without dislocating a couple of bones, at least. I took the safer, yet longer way around, running on the road to avoid the stupid fences altogether.

_Buzz. Buzz. _Crap, my phone was ringing. It had to be Franklin, he must be worried sick, I've been ignoring his calls all day. Slowing to a jogging pace, I wrangled the device from my pocket and answered the call. "Hello, my amazing husband?"

Franklin's deep, resonant voice filled my ear. "Baby, why you ain't pickin' up your phone? What's goin' on? You a'ight?"

"I'm fine," I replied chirpily, panting heavily from exhaustion. "I've been…_huff_…so busy with class—"

"Trace, why you breathin' so hard?"

_Think, Tracey, think! _"I'm…I'm jogging! Yeah, I always go for a jog after class."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I told you this a million times. Babe, I swear, you can be _so_ forgetful sometimes. You're so silly. But it's okay…_huff_…I still love you."

"Uh…" He went quiet, the piercing cry of a baby, our baby, was in the background of the call. "I guess it slipped my mind. Damn, my bad."

"The baby is crying," I pointed out. "Did you feed her? Burp her? Change her diaper?"

"Did that, and more. Girl, I'm runnin' out of ideas. She just won't stop."

I frowned, "Aw, well maybe she's upset because she misses her mommy."

"She ain't the only one," his voice lowered, sweet and subdued. "I miss her too."

"Frank…" My cheeks burnt. Ugh, I hate lying to him, but I had no other choice. He'd never approve of what I'm doing, working aside Smith—

We were a long way out from the trailer park now, the endless expanse of desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Smith caught up with the suspect, tackling him onto the ground. _Yes!_ He struggled frantically, resisting arrest. They wrestled with one another, rolling about in the sand. Franklin was muttering something in my ear, but I was too preoccupied with watching the intense scuffle to listen.

**_Thump. Thump. Thump. _**There were heavy footsteps coming from behind. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a man speeding straight toward me, the pointy silver steel in his hand winked beneath the moonlight, wet with crimson.

_Oh my god, that's a machete. The murder weapon!_

A cold chill raced up my spine. "Shit!" Nearly dropping the phone, I lunged out of the way. He went for my partner instead, the machete chopped down with savage fury. Smith rolled off the suspect, evading the slice just in the nick of time. He rose, casually straightening his tie as the two perpetrators circled around him with murderous intent.

_Not good._

"Trace?" Franklin asked. "What was that? I heard somethin'—"

"Babe, I'll be home soon, okay? Bye!" I hung up, dropped my phone in my purse, and began scanning our gloomy surroundings. There had to be something around this piece of crap wasteland I could use. Hm…there's plenty of rocks in the sand. Bet one of them could come in handy if I manage to get close enough.

"Surrender now, while you still have a chance," Smith warned. "There is no need for more bloodshed. Lay down your arms. Do the right thing."

"Lookie here, Andy," the suspect nudged his friend. "One of them British folk from the TV, you know, them fellers from the royal family."

Andy, the machete wielding maniac wearing blood-smeared overalls and suspenders, glowered at Smith. "You mean to tell me he's one of those fellers from that big 'ol castle, the ones with their nose stuck up higher than a light pole? Good, I'm gon' enjoy skinnin' his hide, then. Send the queen my condolences."

"I am not…" Smith blew out a breath. "Never mind. Please, go ahead," he beckoned his enemies, daring them to come at him. "You may proceed to try and kill me now."

"At least ya asked kindly." The bad guys charged. My partner put his years of training to good use, evading every single strike that came his way. While the creeps were distracted, totally ignoring me as if I weren't a threat—their mistake—I swept up a rock, and skulked close to Andy—**_bam!_** A good whack to the head and he dropped like a hot potato.

His buddy froze. "Andy!" Consumed by concern for his partner in crime, Smith whipped his elbow around and drove the point to his jaw, knocking him senseless. Adrenaline zipped through me. _Heck yeah! We won!_

High off air, I bounced in place, clapping my hands. "Woo! We did it! We're invincible!"

"Tracey! Now that is what I call teamwork!" As if my energy was contagious, Smith beamed, opening his arms to me. "Bring it in!"

I jumped into his grasp and he spun me around, his hug strong and playful. Our cheeks nuzzling, his warm breath on my neck, the hypnotic sound of his accented voice graced my ear. "You caught up to us, love. How? You hate running with a passion."

The breeze shifted, and his wonderfully intimate scent of male heat, sweat and cologne filled my nostrils. "We're partners," I replied. "We're supposed to stick together. And I didn't want you to get hurt."

"You were worried about me?" Smith's crystal blue gaze found mine, our noses brushed, his stare so focused, my heartbeat skyrocketed from the unblinking intensity. A hot blush crept over me, everywhere he touched me burned. I didn't want to cross over any lines I'd regret, but he made it so hard. His fighting finesse, exceptional intelligence, beautiful accent, attractively symmetrical face, and that imperfectly perfect beauty mark on his temple—God, why did he have to be so damn sexy? _It wasn't fair._

"We have two suspects lying at our feet, murderers who must be taken into custody, yet…" He drew a ragged breath, the paleness of his skin flushed with scarlet. "You are absolutely lovely, breathtaking—my love, you are _such _a distraction. But how can I be without you? No, the pain would be too much for a man to bare. Quite the dilemma, isn't it? To adore someone you can never have, someone who is not good for you…"

I stared at him blankly, his big, charming words going through one ear and out the other. What was he even talking about? I had no clue. My attention was glued to his face. He was really nice to look at, the sight of him borderline addicting—

"Well I'll be damned," the sheriff's drawling voice yanked me out of my trance. "Nice work catching them sumbitches. Now if y'all done doing that weird thing you're doin', making sweet love to each other with your eyes or whatever, I sure can use y'all help getting these two criminals back to the station."

I edged away from Smith, an awkward giggle escaped me. "Don't get the wrong idea, Sheriff. It was just a hug."

In an instant, Smith's expression was stoic once more, the softness in his eyes faded. "Indeed. Just a hug—nothing more."

The sheriff's glare shifted between me and Smith suspiciously. "Uh-huh," he muttered, unconvinced. "Well, don't mind me. Long as it ain't breaking no laws of this here land, whatever goes on in the dark ain't none of my damned business."

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**I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you guys like this, I'll continue it as a mini-series, so lemme know what you think! It totally depends on the feedback! Leave a review, I love you guys!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, thanks to all the positive feedback, I decided to upload chapter two! Thank you all for your support, I appreciate you! Enjoy the chapter :)**

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Smith and I stood behind the see-through glass of the Sheriff's Office interrogation room. It was like a prison cell without bars, closed in by chipped concrete walls of slate gray. A bare bulb illuminated the stainless steel table and plastic chairs, but it was dim and flickered somewhat like a strobe light. Andy sagged in his seat, bony wrists cuffed, his jaundiced eyes glued to the door. Restlessly, his leg bounced up and down. And occasionally, he would fiddle with his metal restraints, trying to free his hairy, shrimp-sized arms from captivity.

The guy had a lot of energy to be so scrawny and haggard, his coarse face pitted and scarred, beaten by the sun, his unkempt overgrown hair was sprinkled with grains of soot and sand as if the desert had chewed him up and spit him out. His overalls still smeared with his wife's blood, he showed not an ounce of regret, except for being caught. He was an odd, sickly-looking murderer. Soon, he'll get what he deserved.

I tucked my hands into my armpits, the air-conditioner above blasted out air like we were in a freaking morgue. "This is crazy! Where the effing hell is the sheriff? He's been gone for like twenty minutes now."

Smith glanced at his watch. "Twelve," he corrected. "If I remember correctly, he mentioned he was going to brew a cup of joe and would return shortly."

"Whatever. It doesn't take that long to make coffee."

"Agreed." His gaze shifted upward at the box-like air-conditioner. "That awful contraption is relentless, isn't it?"

"No kidding." I blew out a quivering breath. "We're totally gonna freeze to death before the interrogation even starts. It was nice knowing you, Smith, this was fun while it lasted—"

"Must you always be so melodramatic?" He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

Huddled inside the warmth of his clothing, the subtle aroma of spice and wood smoke extracts rose from the collar. Closing my eyes, I breathed it all in, savoring his masculine scent. God, what brand of cologne was this? It should be illegal for someone to smell _that_ good.

He stroked his fingers through my hair affectionately. "How are you feeling, sweetheart? Better?"

I leaned against him, my head lolled on his shoulder. "Much better, thanks, but aren't you going to be cold without your jacket?"

"No need to thank me," he stared straight ahead, expressionless, his voice robotically calm. "I would happily freeze if it meant keeping a lady warm."

"Seriously? You would do this for any girl?" I looked up, nudging him. "Crap. I thought I was special."

Smith's serious expression cracked, his cutely freckled cheeks rose into a smile. He turned and bowed his head, his face so tantalizingly close to mine, his warm breath ghosted my lips. "I would do so much more for you—_to you_."

Tongue-tied from erotic sinfulness of his words and the mesmerizing, flawless sight of _him_, a shiver passed through me. Although his flirtatious banter was charming, it was unlike him to behave like this, especially while on the job. What's gotten into him? Why was he acting so different? Not that I was complaining…

I inhaled sharply. His nearness made it so easy to forget how to do basic functions like breathing and forming thoughts. Every pore in my body was aware of him, his nearness, the scent of him, the heat of his skin…

The sheriff strode into the interrogation room with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Smith took a step back, but his hand remained casually on my shoulder, my flesh tingled from the contact. "Sorry about the wait, had some business that needed taking care of." The sheriff hitched himself up on the edge of the table, staring down at Andy. "We meet again, Hamilton, same place, different circumstances. Can't stay out of trouble to save your life, now can ya?"

"Aw, give me a break, Sheriff," Andy pleaded. "You know I didn't mean to do it—"

"Didn't mean to do it?" the sheriff said quickly, a little sneeze of laughter escaped him. "I don't give a donkey's ass what you meant to do, ya miserable bastard. All that matters is what you _did_. You killed your goddamn wife, Andy. You murdered her in cold blood."

Andy bolted upright. "I swear I didn't! I didn't do nothing wrong, Pete—"

"It's Sheriff Peterson to you, boy. And you got more blood on you than fresh roadkill. Mind explaining that?"

"It ain't what it looks like. It's paint—I s-s-spilled a can on myself, honest. God as my witness, I'd never hurt no woman, 'specially the woman I love. No, no, I would never. I'm a God-fearing man I'll have you know, put on this earth to do his bidding and nothing more, amen…"

The door to our room opened to a crack. Deputy Angela peeked in, "Am I late?"

"Better late than never," Smith replied cordially, feigning a smile.

"Hopefully I didn't miss any of the juicy bits." She tip-toed in and took a seat.

"I'm being set up," Andy rambled on tearfully. "I'm not the guy. I didn't do it, I love my wife!"

"Cut the bullshit, son," Sheriff Peterson pressed. "You were caught at the scene of the crime and fled from authorities—you attacked a federal agent with the same fucking weapon you used to kill your wife!"

He put his face in his hands, shaking his head from side to side. "No, no…"

"Hamilton is a bigger whack job than I thought," Deputy Angela turned to Smith. "Ain't you a profiler? What do you think, handsome?"

"Too early to say," Smith said. "However, based off evidence alone…"

"Guilty," I declared. "What's the point of even interrogating him? We all know he did it."

"We need a confession, honey," said Deputy Angela in a patronizing tone.

I rolled my eyes at her. She was so annoying. "Whatever. If it were up to me, I'd lock him up and throw away the key. Screw a confession."

"That right there, is the reason we're cops and you're not," she said. "Who gave you clearance to be here anyway?"

Her cocky attitude was getting on my last nerve. "You call yourself a cop?" I snorted. "The only thing I've seen you do so far is run your dirty whore mouth and stick your filthy fingers in places they don't belong."

Rising from her seat, she pushed back her chair violently. She stamped toward me. Smith stretched an arm out between us, stopping her advance. Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, he said, "Ladies, please. Now is not the time for bickering."

From behind Smith's back, I flicked my middle finger upwards, flipping the deputy off. She trembled, her skin flushed crimson. Her glare snapped to my partner. "Control that little bitch of yours, or I will."

Smith glanced at me from the corner of his eye. Quickly, I lowered my finger and flashed an innocent smile. "Respect my partner, Deputy, and she will respect you," he said. "Such a thing is earned, not given, agreed?"

"That 'partner' of yours is slicker than owl shit. I don't trust her one bit." She shook her head before returning to her seat. "You should really reconsider your company, Agent—"

Sheriff Peterson slammed his fist on the table. **_Bam! _**"This is your last chance, Andy! No more pissin' on my leg and tellin' me its rainin', I want the truth, damn it! Or so help me god, you're gonna make me do something I don't wanna do."

Cheeks stained with tears, an evil smirk plastered on his face, Andy leaned sideways, his elbow on the back of his chair. "What're you gonna do, Pete? You can't hurt me—"

Sheriff Peterson wrangled him up by the collar and pinned him against the table. "This is my town!" he screamed in Andy's face. "You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do, sumbitch! I'll tan your hide, you'll be swimmin' with the fishes when I'm done with you!"

"Let me go!" Andy shrilled, his teeth clenched in pain. "Pete! Stop!"

My breath hitched in my chest. What the heck? _The sheriff can't do that, can he?_ I yanked at Smith's sleeve for his attention, stood on the tip of my toes and whispered in his ear, "Please tell me that isn't legal."

"Not at all," he murmured, watching the scene unfold through wide eyes.

"Talk!" Sheriff Peterson commanded. "Confess what you've done!" Trembling on the edge of hysteria, he exploded like a piece of machinery and shot a meaty fist toward Andy's neck. I cringed, the violent blow knocked the wind straight out of him. He crumbled to the ground, gasping harshly, nestling his battered throat in his hand.

Deputy Angela clapped her hands together. "That's right, Sheriff! Tear 'em apart, that lowdown weasel is gonna pay for what he's done!"

"I work too hard to preserve the sanctity of this town," the sheriff blundered on, pacing the room, muscles stiff, a glint of dangerous ferocity in his eyes. "I made an oath to protect _my_ land and its civilians, I won't let no good swine like you destroy what I built…_No!_" He kicked Andy in the stomach. "I'd sooner bury ya before I let that happen. I gotta protect what's mine!"

Smith stepped closer to the glass, his gaze fixed on the sheriff. "Deputy, surely this is being recorded?"

"Naw," she admitted without shame. "We only turn on the recording system at the time of the confession."

"And not the events leading up to it?" He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh dear…"

"What're you gonna do? Report us to the bureau?" She kicked her feet up on the table. "A confession is a confession, don't matter how we get it, do it? We're on the same side here, Agent."

Sheriff Peterson hovered over Andy, hammering him again and again with mallet-like fists. Both my hands flew up to cover my mouth. Jeez, it hurt to watch. Everyone in this town was crazy, including the authorities! He wouldn't stop hitting poor Andy, his knuckles drenched with blood. Sure, the guy murdered his wife, but beating him to a bloody pulp wasn't gonna bring her back from the dead…

Smith turned sharply for the door. Deputy Angela lunged for his arm. "What're you doin'?"

"Putting an end to this charade," Smith snatched his arm away, dusting off his sleeve. "And to be frank, I find you to be quite repulsive, Deputy," he added harshly. "We are colleagues, nothing more. If you could refrain from touching me for now on, it would be greatly appreciated." He stomped out the door.

Mouth gaping wide open, the look on the Deputy Angela's face was priceless. _Serves her right!_

Smith reappeared on the other side of the glass. He grabbed the sheriff by the shoulder and wrenched him off Andy. "That is enough!"

Sheriff Peterson whirled back around, his wrinkled mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "Who the hell do you think you are interrupting _my_ interrogation?"

"This is no interrogation. This is a miscarriage of justice! Guilty as this man may seem, he is a living, breathing person still, entitled to basic human rights." He pointed at Andy's lumpy, battered face. "Look at the bloody mess you've made. You are killing him. Humor me, how do you expect to question a dead man?"

Sprawled face down on the floor, Andy spat out a glob of blood, slurring, "My jaw—you broke my yapper!"

Sheriff Peterson slipped off his cowboy hat and took a menacing step closer to Smith. "You think you're better than me, huh?"

Smith raised his brows. "I'm sorry?"

"I've seen you waltzing 'round town in your fancy ol' suit, nose all up in the air—you think the sun comes up just to hear you crow, don't cha?" The sheriff drew his revolver and pressed the steel to my partner's head. "You think your shit don't stink, City Boy?"

Smith stiffened, "I'm afraid I cannot comprehend what you mean." Tension split the air. My heart pumped erratically at the sight of the gun. _Oh my god. _Every nerve in my body shrieked to intervene, to save my partner before I lost him. But what could I do? I'd get shot too.

"We are all God's children," the sheriff went on. "You shit, piss, and eat just like the rest of us. Y'all federal folk ain't better than no one else ridin' or walkin', ya hear? Sooner you realize that, the better off you're gonna be, I reckon."

"Shoot me if you will, but know that there will be severe repercussions," Smith warned. "Things will not end well for you, nor your beloved town. My death will be your undoing."

"You ain't the first feller to underestimate me, doubt you'll be the last." He lowered his weapon and gave Smith a stiff shove back. "Go on now, get! Outta my sight, City Boy, and take your lil' girlfriend with ya! Show your faces in my town again and I'll put ya both down like the lousy, good for nothin' dogs you are!" He slammed his fist over the table once again. "_Scram!_"

A throng of officers stormed the room, grabbed me with a bruising intensity, and proceeded to drag me away.

"_Hey!_" The strong grip on my wrist tightened and pain shot up to my shoulder. "That hurts!" I struggled frantically. "Let go of me, you pricks!"

"Quit resisting!" a voice asserted from behind. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be—"

"Unhand her!" Smith caught me by the elbow, pulling me against him possessively, freeing me from the clutches of the aggressive officers. I held him tight, the moment his warm, reaching fingers touched my skin, I was safe. "We are leaving. Please, there is no need for unnecessary force," he attempted to reason with the crazed law enforcement. "I beg of you, let us walk."

Deputy Angela pushed her way through the crowd. "You have five seconds to get gone, starting now."

We threaded our way swiftly out of the station. The sheriff and his deputy were bad news. As a matter of fact, the entire town was bad news. Sandy Shores was officially the worse place _ever_. You had to be a complete maniac to live here, no wonder Uncle Trevor fit in so well.

* * *

Smith parked the car at a hasty angle a block from my house, in the same spot as always. Exhausted by the long drive through evening traffic, he yawned loudly. "Forgive me, it's been quite the day."

"Quite the day?" His yawn was contagious, I had to smother my own. "Today was the worst day ever and you know it."

"Agreed. It was absolutely horrendous. There is much to think about, however, I need time, sleep, food. I am overworked, underpaid…" His voice trailed off.

I reached out, sweeping the silky ringlets of hair dangling by his forehead back into place. "Are you okay? I thought Sheriff Dipshit was going to kill you."

"Worry not for me, love, I am fine." He cupped my hand and rose my palm to his lips, planting a small kiss there. My skin burned in his wake, he was so effortlessly seductive. "Two guns were pulled on me today, both pressed against my skull and I'm still alive. Quite the achievement." He grinned and straightened his shoulders, stretching lazily. "This job is going to be the death of me."

"You should quit before that happens," I said. "I mean, seriously Smith, you've been lucky so far, but what if your luck runs out? Your daughter Phoebe is gonna grow up without a father."

"This is my passion, Tracey, my calling," his smile broadened, teeth white and dazzling. "I was given this unique skillset to help others, I _must_ defend those who cannot defend themselves. It's difficult to explain, this feeling, this urgency, this compulsion…"

"Try. I wanna understand."

"For as long as I can remember, there's been a burning in my chest, an all-consuming flame to snuff out evil, to do good, to do more. San Andreas is broken, riddled with senseless crime, corrupted at the core by faceless bureaucrats. To root out the vile and corrupt wherever they may hide—the drive will literally burn me alive if I do not act on it, so hot and fierce I can feel the very essence of my soul seething, withering away…" He chuckled to himself. "Crazy, isn't it?"

Smith could get so zealous and impassioned about his work. It was inspiring. Cute too.

"A man without purpose is nothing," my partner went on. "My occupation provides me the tools necessary to do what must be done. And to be blunt, I fancy a good mystery, don't you?" He met my gaze squarely. My heart flipped over in response. "You are far too quiet for comfort," his hand clasped mine, our fingers intertwined. "Please, share your thoughts."

"I think you're cute," I admitted.

Smirking, a flush spread on his freckled cheeks. "I spill my soul to you and you mock me," he toyed gently with my fingers as he spoke. "How dare you? We are no longer BFFs—"

"I'm not mocking you, I'm being serious!" I threw my arms around him, my fingers wound in his silky hair, I kissed his cheek. "We're going to be best friends forever and ever, there's no turning back now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said softly, seriously, the heat of his sapphire blue gaze fixed on me, drifting down my neck, his sight lingered intimately on my chest for a moment, then settled on my arms. "You have bruises, sweetheart," his thumb brushed lightly over my aching skin. "Right there, where those accursed officers grabbed you."

"Really?" I punched on the dome lights, and there it was—an angry purple welt across my arm. _Yuck!_ It was big, gross looking, and Franklin was definitely going to ask one-hundred and one questions if he saw it. "Oh my god, it's hideous!"

"They handled you with such carelessness, I'm surprised it's not worse." His fingers stroked my skin in circular motions, the warm affectionate gesture was relaxing. "I worry for you, love, truly I do. If any real harm were to come to you, I don't quite know what I'd do—"

"No, don't start with the nagging again. I'm going to be fine, Smith, relax." I glanced at my phone. _Ten o'clock! I'm late! _"Okay, gotta run." I opened the passenger door and stepped out. "Bye!"

He caught my wrist. "Would you fancy a cup of coffee from Bean Machine tomorrow? We can discuss case theories, clog our colon pipes with cake as you tend to say?"

"Are you kidding? There's nothing I want more than to clog my colon pipes with you, especially after the day we just had," I frowned. "But Franklin is going out tomorrow, he has some business crap to take care of. I'll be stuck home with the baby—"

"Perfect!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with delight. "Bring Emma with us!"

My stomach dropped at the idea. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as cancer! I've been dying for an opportunity to meet her! You must bring the bundle of joy, you must! Oh, what a jolly good time it will be. I cannot wait!"

"Smith, I didn't agree to anything."

His gaze softened, doe-eyed and pleading. "You wouldn't deny me, your best friend, would you?"

I sighed. Rarely did he ever get excited about _anything_. How could I say no?

"I will beg if I must," he persisted. "I will get down on my bloody knees right now—"

"_Fine!_" I blurted. "We need to be back before eight, that's her bedtime, got it? It's non-negotiable."

"Yes, of course," Smith beamed. "You both will be home, safe and sound, long before her bedtime. You won't regret this, I promise you!"

_Yeah, somehow I doubt that._

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	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys, I'm back with an update!**

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Cheery sunshine flooded the teeming streets of downtown Los Santos. Bean Machine was crowded as usual this time of day, a constant stream of customers strode into the shop. Numerous young couples leaned over hot mugs of espresso, some holding hands sweetly under the chrome bistro tables, while the larger, more boisterous groups congested the leather booths in the back.

My partner sat across from me, his gaze glued to the case files scattered across the table as he cradled Emma in his arms, her head tucked comfortably beneath his chin.

I took a sip of my latte. "Find anything interesting in there?"

Smith replied, "Otto's criminal record is the length of a novel, and not a very intriguing one, neither. Disorderly conduct, public intoxication, petty theft, vandalism—all misdemeanors, recent too. He seems to be quite the functional alcoholic, working man by day, drunken imbecile by night." He passed me a black and white photo of Otto spray painting a house with the depiction of an eagle. "Take a close look at the vandalism, will you? Does it look familiar at all?"

I shrugged. "It looks like an eagle, maybe he likes birds?"

"That eagle is the insignia of The Lost MC. It appears our friend Otto is affiliated with a notorious biker gang. Fascinating."

"The Lost MC? I never heard of them. Are they dangerous? Should we be worried?"

He shook his head. "Thanks to your demented uncle and his destructive, homicidal tendencies, their numbers are waning—" Emma grabbed the glasses from the bridge of his nose and began gnawing on the frame with her toothless little gums.

Smith smiled at her, his gaze warm and sparkling with affection. "Aw, what do you think you're doing, little one? I need those." He retrieved his glasses from her mouth and replaced it with her pacifier. "There, suck on your dummy instead. Much better than some wanker's dusty reading spectacles, isn't it?"

Emma let out a gurgle of laughter, brown eyes shining, her wide smile revealing the dimples in her little cheeks. She reached up, touching his face, one hand pulled at his square chin, and the other squeezed his nose. Holding her close to his chest, he bounced her playfully on his knee and was rewarded with more lighthearted giggling.

"I think she likes you," I said.

"Splendid, I fancy the little one too," he planted a kiss in her curly hair.

A stout, rosy-faced woman with an infant strapped within a stroller scurried up to us, her eyes widening at the sight of Emma. "Oh my god, she's so cute!" she exclaimed. "How many months is she?"

"Eight," I replied.

"Awh, so cute," she glanced at Smith and feigned a smile. "She looks so much like her um, father."

I blinked. "Uh, he isn't…"

"Shame on you," the woman shook her head, and leaned over Smith. "A friendly piece of advice, honey—once a cheater, always a cheater." She swirled the stroller around and strode away.

I stared at her, slack jawed and speechless. _What the effing hell was her problem?_

Smith managed a laugh. "Goodness, the audacity."

"What a bitch," I grumbled, stuffing a croissant in my mouth. "That was so rude, she had no right—"

"You shouldn't speak with your mouth full, love."

Chewing louder, I stabbed my plastic butter knife at him. "_Don't _tell me what to do."

He smirked, "Cute." His gaze returned to his files. "Anyhow, The Lost run most of their drug smuggling and gun running operations in Alderney and Liberty City, however, they do maintain a small presence in Blaine County as well. According to my sources, they own a clubhouse in Stab City, ruins of some old motel. I think it's worth investigating, don't you? If we are lucky, we may run into Otto, I have some more questions for him."

An elderly man set a card down on the table as he walked past. "Hm, what do we have here?" Smith flipped the card over and winced.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A number…" He paused, sighing as he loosened his tie. "For a DNA test…"

_The nerve of these people! _Heat flushing through my body, I jolted upright and shouted loud enough for the whole coffeehouse to hear, "Hey, listen up, nosey motherfuckers, he's not the father of my baby, okay? Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear? Did I really have to say it?"

"No, you didn't," a guy yelled in response. "Everyone already knows!"

"Mind your own effing business! This is _my _mixed baby, not yours! You people disgust me!" In a rage-fueled flurry, I gathered up all of Smith's case files and swerved for the exit. "C'mon, we're leaving."

Smith scrambled behind me with Emma in tow. "Are you okay, love? Where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here."

I linked arms with Smith once we made it outside, and we shuffled along the busy city sidewalk, blending in with the crowd. My hands were shaking, my chest was tight, my stomach rumbled with nausea—I had to get as far away from Bean Machine and those rude, obnoxious people as possible.

A few blocks down, we came across a tree-lined path leading into a dog park. We took a seat on a bench below a thick, green canopy. Beneath the pale blue sky, the squirrels leapt from branch to branch, dogs trotted happily on leashes, and the laughter of children echoed through the air—everyone was enjoying the great outdoors, and most importantly, minding their own business. Here, I could exist and live my best life without being watched by annoying, judgmental strangers.

I crossed my arms, my leg bounced anxiously. That was by far the worst experience I've ever had at Bean Machine_. I can't believe this, I'm totally gonna file a complaint…_

With one protective arm wrapped around Emma as she cuddled up to his side, drooling on his fine tailored suit, not that he seemed to care, Smith squeezed my shoulder. "Sweetheart, you seem perturbed. Talk to me, you have my ear."

"I'm upset, Smith, I'm effing pissed," I complained, my voice high-pitched, shaky and squealing. "Those people don't know me, they don't know you, how could they judge us like that? So what if I have a mixed baby? So what if you're not the father? Who gives a shit! _Ugh!_" I kicked at a nearby pebble on the ground. "I'm so over this dumb city, I hate everyone and everything right now, I hate the entire world!"

"Surely you don't disdain me," he passed me my baby. "Or cute little Emma here?"

One look at her innocent face and I couldn't help but smile. "Whatever. I'm still mad."

He pinched my cheek. "That lovely smile of yours says otherwise."

"Stop that," I swatted his hand away. "It's not helping."

"How about this?" In one forward motion he embraced me, loose and hesitant, but once I leaned into him, melting into his tenderness, his grasp became eager, loving, the warmth of his touch alone eased my mind and quelled the fiery rage in me. My heart fluttered wildly in my chest, his nearness was overwhelming, the natural magnetism of his long, lean form made it impossible to draw away, impossible to resist.

My hand lingered up his muscled back to his collar, brushed over the ends of his hair and down his collarbone, my fingers paying extra attention to the small beauty marks adorning his neck. I liked to touch them, my own way of admiring the most unique part of him, and also the most attractive. He shivered, a pleased murmur escaped him. "May I suggest we do this more often?" His lips grazed over my ear with every soft, tantalizingly accented word. "I haven't had the pleasure of a hug such as this since…"

He abruptly jerked back, shifting away from me. Emma let out a piercing wail, the sudden movement must had frightened her. "It's okay, it's okay," I said consolingly, rocking her tiny body in my arms. "Everything is fine, sweetie. Don't cry."

"Forgive me, o-oh dear, I am so sorry," my partner sputtered, unzipped my backpack and dipped a hand in, retrieving a warm bottle of milk. "Here, that ought to soothe her."

I gave Emma her bottle and the crying stopped, thank god. "You scared her," I yanked a tissue from my pocket and wiped her nose. "What's the matter with you, Smith? Why are you being so weird?"

He didn't respond. I gazed at him. His compelling blue stare was distant, glistening with tears. It was strange to witness his classically handsome face downturned and brooding. He looked so innocent, like a sad puppy. For a moment I had forgotten he was a cunning federal agent with enough fighting finesse to kill someone in the blink of an eye. My heart clenched with concern for him.

"What's wrong?" I asked, rubbing his back. "Did I say something? I'm sorry—"

"No, please, I should be the one apologizing. I did not intend to frighten the nipper." He stood, a passive mask crossed his face. "I have a meeting scheduled with an informant of mine regarding the Nancy Jones case. Would you like to accompany me?"

Instead of pressing him about whatever was troubling him a second ago, I decided to drop it, for now. "Sure, but Emma's gonna need her diaper changed soon."

He nodded, "We have a clean nappy in the car if I'm not mistaken."

I took his side. "So who's the informant?"

"Surely you remember our dear friend Cadillac? Did you know he's an undercover cop?"

"What?" My jaw dropped. "You're not talking about the same guy who threatened to shoot you in the face yesterday, right?"

"Indeed I am. He's an old friend, a fine fellow, harmless most of the time. Come, our meeting place is not far from here."

* * *

High up on the plateau of treeless hills, a short distance from the iconic Vinewood sign, towering and glistening orange under the spreading sunset, the car glided into a stop before a deep slope in the patchy grassland overlooking the bustling city. The colossal buildings and houses dotting the metropolitan shone like a star-lit river, the gleam of glass, ant-like people, and vehicles constantly moving, fast and loud and the motion never ceased.

Cadillac awaited us, leaning on the hood of his chrome Mercedes-Benz, hands deep within the pockets of his faded jeans. For a moment I hadn't recognized him without the multiple silver chains dangling from his neck and the scary looking bandana over his rugged face. He was clean-shaven now, curly hair covered by a black beanie and dark shades concealing his eyes, a bulletproof vest was fixed to his brawny chest with a long sleeve gray shirt underneath. He wore his police badge like a stylish pendant, suspended from a chain, a round metal LSPD insignia rested between his pectorals.

Smith dipped out of the car, beaming at the sight of his friend. I followed after him, Emma sleeping soundly in my arms. "Greetings, Detective!" my partner called out energetically, lowering the white wire from his ear.

"What's up, Olly?" The two men exchanged a brief hug. Cadillac's threatening persona had altered entirely. He spoke fluently, kind, and at ease, the dangerous aura he had about him when we first met had dissolved into an air of passiveness. Despite his imposing, stocky build, the white, toothy smile plastered on his face made him seem harmless. Wait, what happened to his gold grillz? "How's the investigation going? Any progress?"

"More questions than answers I'm afraid." Smith placed a hand on my shoulder, drawing me to him. "This is my partner, Tracey, and the nipper here is her lovely daughter, Emma."

"We met yesterday," I pointed out. "You know, when you pulled a gun on us and threatened to blow our brains out—"

"Yeah, sorry about that," he flashed an apologetic smile, scratching his head. "I was playing a role, sometimes I get a little carried away, it's part of the job. No hard feelings, alright?"

"You make for a very convincing thug, Cadillac, I applaud you," Smith said.

"Dude, what did I tell you about calling me that?" Cadillac folded his arms over his chest. "That's my character name, some shit I use on the streets when I'm on the job. But here, when it's just me, you, and your pretend girlfriend, it's Andre, alright?"

"How did you know it was pretend?" I asked.

"Listen, I've known Olly long enough to know he isn't exactly what you'd call a 'ladies man'. The dude _sucks _with women. Really, it's sad."

"Oh, bugger off," Smith grumbled.

"I'm serious," Cadillac continued. "Last chick who flirted with him, he bolted, like literally ran. Funniest, most pathetic thing I've ever seen. This girl was hot as hell too."

I giggled, "Seriously?"

My partner shook his head, his freckled cheeks reddened violently. "That's rubbish, he's lying."

"I swear on my grandmother's grave, and you know I love my grandma. Some dudes have game, Olly isn't one of them."

"Slander," Smith blurted. "Absolute and utter slander."

Cadillac snickered, "What is it with you and women anyway? They practically throw themselves at you, why can't you play catch?"

"He's gay," I said.

"Not gay," he countered. "However, I do have standards, a foreign concept to you, Andre, I'm sure."

Cadillac threw his head back and laughed. "Actually, I think I know what's going on here, bro. You're one of those asexual dudes. Read about it in a magazine once, you know that's a medical condition, right?"

"A bold assumption," Smith said, "And needless to say—wrong. Now, might I suggest you stop prying into my sex life? You are making me a tad bit uncomfortable."

"Hey, man, we're all friends here," Cadillac said. "I'm curious, I wanna know why you're so fucking weird—"

"Language," Smith snapped. "There's a nipper right here, be courteous, will you?"

"Opps, sorry." Cadillac gazed at sleeping Emma. "She's cute and all, but what's she doing here? Is it bring your kid to work day down at the bureau?"

"It's been a slow day, filing paperwork, skimming over case files and the like. The little one makes for pleasant company." Smith circled around the Mercedes-Benz, observing the overly expensive car in awe. "Goodness, it's magnificent. How could you afford such a thing? Did you get a raise?"

"Won it in a street race," Cadillac replied nonchalantly.

Smith froze, an exaggerated gasp slipped from his lips. "An _illegal_ street race?"

"Of course it was illegal, c'mon, this is Los Santos. I had to do a lot of shit I'm not proud of to prove myself to The Families, man. You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet, you know that better than anyone, Olly, especially after all the sacrifices you made to take down Madrazo."

"How could I forget?" A wistfulness stole into Smith's expression, his blue eyes unfocused and glittering. "I often wonder whether it was all worth it or not."

Cadillac squeezed Smith's shoulder. "Dude, it was. Never doubt that, man. You saved a shitload of lives, including your daughter's."

"Have you forgotten that my daughter disdains me? I am the reason she was taken in the first place, she blames me for every misfortune she's ever endured and I cannot refute her."

My brows shot up hearing the news. _Phoebe hated him? He never mentioned anything like that to me…_

Smith gave Cadillac a firm pat on the elbow before pulling away. "But enough about me, dear friend. I doubt you jeopardized your cover to call me here for casual conversation alone. I trust we have business to discuss?"

"Right, about that." Cadillac turned, popped open the trunk of his car and began rooting through the contents within. "You said Shanice was killed by blunt force trauma, right?"

"With a hammer, I presume," Smith replied.

While Cadillac was preoccupied, I pulled on Smith's jacket for his attention. "Why didn't you tell me about Phoebe? I thought we were friends."

"BFFs," he corrected, looking down at me, his expression serious. "And I rather not bother you with such trivial matters. You have enough to worry about."

"Trivial? Are you kidding me?" I beat my fist over his chest. "Your daughter hating you is a big effing deal, idiot. Keeping that from me is a total violation of the BFF code."

"Forgive me," my partner pouted, that innocent, doe-eyed look of his made my heart clench with guilt. "I did not keep such sensitive information to myself just to spite you, sweetheart. No, no—my intentions are pure, I rather not burden you with my problems if I can help it—"

I smothered a palm over his firm lips, silencing him. "It's whatever, I forgive you. Just stop being sad, okay? I hate it."

Playfully, I yanked off his tie and ruffled the neatness of his slicked hair, twirling a finger around the ends of a few dark strands. Although his usual elegant, methodically neat appearance was attractive, he was so much sexier like this—silky hair tousled and flowing in the breeze, his collar open and exposed, revealing an intimate peek of his defined chest, dotted with a faded freckle here and there.

"Tracey?" His sculpted face split into a sheepish smile. "Is there a reason you are removing articles of my clothing, in public of all places?" _God_, Smith was so aesthetically pleasing to the eye, like a divine painting to be idolized and cherished. And the craziest part? He had no idea how visually stunning he was. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?"

"There's nothing on your face, dweeb," I gave him back his tie.

In an effort to undo the fashionable, casually sexy look I just gave him, he tossed his tie loosely around his shoulders, and combed a heavy lock of hair back from his forehead with his fingers. "What have you done to my hair, love? I'm a federal agent you know, keeping up appearances is essential in my line of work—"

"It doesn't matter. I can do literally _anything_ to your hair and you'll still look hot."

Smith stiffened, a vivid red blush stained his cheeks. _Cute. _"T-that's…very k-kind of you to say," he sputtered.

"Found it!" Cadillac exclaimed, jogging over to us. He handed Smith a ball-peen hammer sealed in a zip lock bag, the metal head coated in blood. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure that's the murder weapon, but I'm gonna need your forensics team to confirm it."

"W-where…" Still tongue-tied from my compliment, Smith cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "Where did you find this?"

"Listen, the hood is shaken up over Shanice and Nancy, there's been all kinds of rumors floating around so I followed up on some of them—" Cadillac's jeans began to chirp. He wrangled his phone out of his pocket and read a notification, his eyes widening. "Look, I got some Balla motherfuckers breathing down my neck, I can't tell you everything I know right now, I gotta go." He hopped in his car in a hurry. "Just get the results from forensics, and you know, investigate, do what you do best, man. We'll catch up soon, I'll find you."

Smith reached through the window, grabbing his arm. "Wait! Let me aid you. Give me a name, an address, anything—point me in the direction of the sinful; of the corruption, and I will gladly purge this city of its filth."

"You scare me when you talk like that, Olly," Cadillac started the ignition with a sigh. "You wanna fuck up some bad dudes? Fine. There's a coke lab on the outskirts of Strawberry, run by some Balla OG clown who calls himself Chedda. Had the pleasure of meeting him once, he's a violent asshole, has a reputation for torturing people, some real sadistic shit, not gonna get into the details. Anyway, that's not even the worst part. The dude tends to fool unsuspecting buyers into believing his product is pure cocaine, but it's actually bath salts. Motherfucker is turning people into raging, foam-spewing zombies."

I cringed. "No way! How long have you known this? Why hasn't anyone done anything to stop it?"

"Most boys in blue make a conscious effort to avoid poverty-stricken areas, especially if it's a hot spot for gang activity," Cadillac explained. "I don't blame them, Los Santos is a breeding ground for violent psychopaths with nothing to lose—cop killers and drug fiends everywhere. Officers don't wanna die just as much as any other fucker. I thought about making a move against Chedda's little operation myself, but it's not worth it. Can't blow my cover, not over him." He glanced at Smith. "Nothing stopping this righteous motherfucker here from putting a cap in Chedda's ass though. If you see him at the coke lab, some ugly fat fuck with grillz, put him down for me, Olly."

Smith nodded in compliance. "Rest assured, Detective, he and his associates will be eradicated without hesitation."

"Good, you'll be doing the world a favor. I'll text you an address. Good luck out there, guys." Cadillac stepped on the gas and peeled off.

* * *

It was a quarter to eight when we arrived at our destination, a block away from my home, Smith nosed the car into the same narrow space as always. The final remnants of daylight faintly streaked the sky. Emma was still sleeping, strapped up tight in her car seat. All the commotion at the coffee shop must had really worn her out, she's not used to so much excitement.

"Here you are," Smith said, the softness of the red sunset on his face. "Back home, safe and sound with forty-five minutes to spare before little Emma's bedtime."

"I never doubted you, _Olly_," I nudged him. "I like that nickname. I think I'll call you that from now on."

"I don't mind. From your lips, it has quite the pleasant ring to it." He laid a palm possessively across my thigh, my stomach did a quick somersault from the tenderness of his warm touch. "Will you stay with me a while longer?" he urged softly. "I don't want you to go, not so soon."

I nodded and unbuckled my seat belt, his charming, smoothly accented voice lured me closer, my face tucked in the crook of his neck so I could revel in the sensuous baritone of his every word. I drank in the comfort of his nearness, the tempting scent of extravagant cologne rose from his collar, teasing my senses. "Thank you, by the way," he smiled, "For granting me the opportunity to meet Emma. I know it was not easy, given the circumstances…"

"It was worth it. I think she enjoyed herself." Tenderly, I stroked the pulsing hollow at the base of his throat, the light stubble felt nice beneath my fingertips.

Smith swallowed deep, his pale skin flushed from the intimate contact. He leaned over, his face nuzzling my hair, his hand seared an arousing path up my thigh, deliberately exploring my curves, squeezing, fondling, leaving a trail of burning need in its wake.

His caress came to an abrupt halt. Fists clenched, muscles tight with strain, he planted a kiss atop my head and drew away. "Perhaps this was a bad idea. I…I shouldn't linger, love. There is something I must do—"

"You aren't going to that drug lab tonight, are you?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And then what? You're gonna 'eradicate' everyone there?"

"Yes," he repeated dryly, emotionlessly.

"_Really?_" I scoffed. "Sure, they're bad guys, but you can't just murder people, Smith. It's wrong. Why not arrest them instead?"

"We've been over this before. I rather not waste the time nor resources—"

"Seriously? Do you hear yourself right now? You sound like a total asshole. Who are you? What have you done with the federal agent I know and love?"

Smith gazed thoughtfully out the window, his eyes flat and as unreadable as stone. "Tracey, you have a good heart and a just mind, and with that comes a natural proclivity to defend your fellow man, to show mercy, even if he may not be particularly deserving of it. However, if you could place your moral biases aside for a moment and hear me out, perhaps we can come to a mutual understanding?"

"Okay, fine," I said. "Why don't bad guys deserve mercy? We've all broken a law or two in the past, it doesn't mean we should be condemned to death."

"There are varying degrees of 'bad'. A thug with a taste for torture who happens to also peddle bath salts disguised as cocaine is considerably worse than a petty thief, a pickpocket for example, agreed?"

"I guess."

"Humor me then, if Andre's information is credible, which it always is, give me one good reason why the scandalous thug should be spared."

"I don't know," I sighed, weary of the debate. "Maybe he has a family?"

"And that alone pardons him of every life potentially taken by the use of his counterfeit goods? The gang violence, torturing—you'd let him off the hook just like that?"

"No, he belongs in jail. That's his punishment."

"The justice system here is flawed," he argued. "Criminals are taken into custody, temporarily punished, and then released back into public without rehabilitation, barred from working a livable wage, and thus, forced to repeat the same atrocities once again to survive. It is a vicious cycle, one that I refuse to take any part in."

"So killing them is the answer?"

"I've never killed a man who wasn't a killer himself. It's cosmic justice, Karma, an eye for an eye, retribution if you will, for the lives they have taken."

Jeez, was he always _this_ self-righteous? "You know, Smith, I'm starting to think you're more of a vigilante than an ordinary FIB agent."

"Hm, maybe. Certainly food for thought." Cupping my chin, his pretty blue eyes searched my upturned face. "Forgive me, it is not my intention to be unpleasant, love. I beg of you, place your trust in me, believe that I will do what must be done for the sake of this city. The ends justify the means, my sins, my sacrifices—all for the greater good, I assure you."

His impassioned words, although intense, were moving. The crime rate in Los Santos was through the roof. Someone had to do something about it. Smith was zealous, scratch that—borderline _fanatical_ about his line of work. He was the perfect candidate.

"You may not agree with what I'm about to do," he continued. "But at the very least, do you understand why I must?"

"Whatever happens, promise me you won't die," I said. "I can't lose you."

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he gravitated close, touched his lips to my jaw and dragged them to the corner of my mouth. My heart raced, the delicious temptation of his beautifully symmetrical face so close to mine, our breath mingling, a shudder passed through me. "There is nothing and no one on this earth nor the next that can keep us apart. I am here for you, I am yours and yours only, forever, _whenever_ you are ready."

My stomach dropped. _Jesus Christ, I'm married!_ It was agonizing how seductive Smith was. He made it so difficult to be loyal.

"I have to go," I snatched Emma from her seat and scrambled out of the car. "See you tomorrow!"

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please, please, please leave a review! Favorite and follow if you enjoyed this, your feedback is greatly appreciated! I love you guys!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, back with an update! Its a shorter chapter, but I think you guys will enjoy it ;)**

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I slid into the leather booth beneath a massive crystal chandelier, approving more and more of Franklin's choice of restaurant. This wasn't the type of place you could get a table on impulse, my husband made our reservation a month in advance. Mom and Dad had Emma so the night was ours to enjoy, no diaper changes included. The space was dimly lit, candles flickered on the marble dining tables. Dressy servers with clacking shoes whisked by with hot trays of food, the air thick with the scent of various savory dishes. I was so ready to make an order and dig in!

I scanned the menu. The Cajun shrimp and pasta entrée looked delicious, but the price tag was crazy! "Whoa, this stuff is expensive."

My husband snorted from across the table. "It's all good, we can afford it, babe. Don't worry."

Our waiter, a short guy clad from head to toe in white, strode over to our table with a notepad in hand. "Sir and madam," he greeted us with a curt nod. "Are you ready to make your order?"

Franklin replied, "Yeah, I'll take a rib-eye steak, well done. Y'all got Merlot?"

"Yes we do, sir." The waiter turned to me. "And for the missus?"

Before I managed to utter a word, Franklin intervened. "The Cajun shrimp and pasta entrée for her, no mushrooms, and a piña colada with a double shot, shaken, don't blend it, man. And go easy on the garlic and peppers, my girl got a sensitive stomach, a'ight?"

"Right away, sir." The waiter gathered up our menus, turned, and hurried off.

I gaped at my husband. How did he know _exactly _what I wanted? "Frank, since when did you become a mind reader?"

"C'mon, girl, we're married. I'm supposed to know shit like this—the food you like, your weird hatred for mushrooms, the way your face frowns up whenever you taste a pinch of peppers…" A ghost of a grin touched his full lips, his brown complexion glowed beautifully above the candlelight. I found myself staring at him boldly, my gaze roamed from his strong, square jaw down to his broad chest and biceps bulging from his long-sleeve shirt.

He excluded masculinity; his ruggedness so deliciously appealing my eyes burned from the sight of him. There was a tingling in the pit of my stomach from the magnetic pull between us. Although he was silent and unmoving, his presence alone was tremendous. His fade, sharp, neatly trimmed with a natural wave pattern, had a subtle shine that made my fingers curl with the urge to touch it. He was only a short distance away, just across the table, and I still had to fight the overwhelming need to be closer to him.

My phone vibrated in my purse, snapping me out of my trance. I glanced at the notifications. One missed call, and three text messages from Smith.

**I have a new lead. Are you available today?**

**Busy, I presume? **

** Where are you?**

I texted him back, letting him know that I was busy and I'd see him tomorrow. "Anyway," I said, returning my attention to my husband. "Hi, Frank."

"Wassup?" he replied with a hint of amusement. "How's school going, baby?"

My pulse skittered at the question. "Great! Everything is perfectly fine. I love school, school is the best." I quickly changed the subject, "You were gone all day yesterday, for business?"

"Yeah, I had to go to Sandy Shores, Trevor needed help with some shit—"

"Sandy Shores? Uncle T?" My eyes widened. "What were you doing there? What did he need help with?"

"Company," Franklin smiled sadly. "I think he's lonely, cooped up in that dirty ass trailer all day. I asked him to move to LS, that way he'd be closer to his homies, but nah. Crazy motherfucker hates the city, prefers dirt, coyotes and that fucked up basement he calls a meth lab. The dude is set in his ways, ain't no changin' his damn mind. Kinda feel bad for him."

"Babe," I stared him straight in the eye. "Don't go back to Sandy Shores _ever_ again, okay?"

"If this is about Trevor, you can relax, Trace. I know he's a ticking time bomb, but I can handle him."

"Frank—"

"T can be difficult, real difficult to deal with sometimes, but he's just misunderstood. He really ain't that bad—"

"It's not about Trevor!" I blurted, heat sizzling inside me. The heads of other diners snapped in our direction from my sudden outburst. "Sorry," I muttered, sinking into my seat. _Awkward._

Franklin regarded me quizzically for a moment, and then stood, sliding into the booth next to me. He drew me in, his arms circled around my waist, his nose nuzzled mine lovingly. My drink hadn't arrived yet and I already felt intoxicated by the warmth of his big, strong body and enticing scent of his skin. "Girl, what's wrong? You're actin' weird." He cupped my cheek, his hazel eyes gazed into mine. "You good?"

Managing a nod, I hugged him, the safety of his closeness soothed my nerves. Sensually, his lips traced a throbbing vein in my throat and I sighed, melting against him. "You sure everythin' is okay?" he persisted. "You can talk to me 'bout anythin', sweetie. I'm here for you, Trace. I'll always be here to listen, baby."

His sweet, supportive words was a delicate reminder why I fell in love with him. Franklin was my rock, the man I could turn to whenever things got hard. He was trustworthy, consistent, and loyal, always there for me whenever I needed him, no matter the dangers involved. My husband was like my guardian angel, a dark, strapping, and sexy one at that.

"I'm fine, Frank," I reassured, stroking my fingers through his soft beard.

He caught my earlobe between his teeth. "You promise?"

"Promise."

He cupped my chin and tilted my head for better access to my neck. My breath caught in my throat as his lips ravaged my skin with provocative possessiveness. Franklin was shameless with his affection and was more than happy to give it to me regardless of who may be watching. It was flattering, but also a little nerve-wracking depending on the present company. Still, his seductive advances kept things interesting.

He slipped a hand under my dress, curling a finger around the lace of my thong. He smiled in approval. "Nice."

"Hey," I swatted his hand away. "Why can't we go anywhere without you trying to rip my panties off?"

"Why can't we go anywhere without you looking…" His gaze drifted from my head, down my short black dress to my French pedicured toes. "Like that. It's hard not to touch, girl."

"Well, try. We're in public, you know."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate how good you look right now." His thumb brushed over the corner of my mouth. "Them high heels, that dress, your thong—can't wait to strip it all off tonight."

A shiver moved through me. "You always know just what to say to spark the romance," I teased.

The waiter arrived with our drinks, muttered something and disappeared once again, but I didn't care to hear. My focus was fully immersed in my husband, the way his large, hard body enclosed me in such a tight space, radiating a sexual energy and inexplicable _pull_ that kept me shifting eagerly in my seat.

Franklin dipped back his wine glass and drained it, his eyes not leaving me for a second. "Romance ain't really my thing, Trace." His voice lowered, deep and deliberately seductive. "But a thousand ways to make you come is. I can show you when we get home, baby." He flashed a wicked smile. I stiffened, struggling to ignore the sudden ache between my legs. My mouth watered, and I couldn't tell whether it was from the scent of all the tempting food around us, or _just _him.

With our daughter needing constant attention, our sex life wasn't nearly as active as it used to be. But that was about to change. There was a smoldering intensity in his eyes, dark with lust for me. "I know this ain't the best time…" Unable to restrain himself, he sealed his lips over mine. I sighed, giving into him despite our surroundings, his tongue dipped inside, exploring my mouth with long, tantalizing strokes. I loved the way he kissed me, as if he'd lose his mind if he didn't, as if he couldn't last a second longer in this world without the taste of my lips.

My arms curled around his neck. He scooped a calloused hand beneath me, kneading my hips, pinning me against him. I sucked on his tongue, knowing how much he liked it, and received a deep, sinfully erotic groan from the depths of his chest as a reward. He broke the kiss. "Damn, girl," he murmured, his breathing heavy. Being more well-endowed than the average man, he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting himself in his pants. "How the hell am I supposed to get through dinner like this?"

I giggled at his rugged face, flushed with lust. "Hey, that's not my fault. You started it."

"I blame you for wearin' that dress." Hesitantly, he withdrew, returning to his booth across from me, giving us both some much needed space to catch our breath. Refusing to go for even a moment without physical contact, he reached across the table and clasped my hand.

The waiter returned with two steaming trays of food. "Bon appétit," he said, carefully placing the respective entrées before Franklin and I.

Although it had a hefty price tag, the food looked and tasted amazing. One bite of the Cajun shrimp and I was in heaven. Halfway through devouring it, my phone started buzzing in my purse again. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't stop. The _buzz_ went on, and on, and on…it was so annoying.

I wiped my hands and slid out of my booth. "Babe, I'll be right back." Stiletto heels clicking against the floor with every step, I walked past a row of dining tables to the restroom. There were a few women inside, casually sprucing up their makeup in the mirror. I took refuge in one of the empty, surprisingly clean stalls, and dug out my phone. Ten missed calls from Smith and one new text:

**Come over. I must see you, it's an emergency. Please.**

Startled by the impassioned message, I called him back. No answer, so I called him again. And again. My efforts to contact him went straight to voicemail.

_Oh my god._ It was so out of the ordinary for my partner to reach out to me like this. I held my phone to my hammering heart, at a loss for what to do. What was the emergency? Was he in trouble? I couldn't just walk out on my date, but how could I stay here and pretend everything is fine and dandy? What if Smith was hurt? If something happened to him and I did nothing to prevent it, I'd hate myself forever.

I left the restroom and slipped out the backdoor of the restaurant. I didn't have the guts to face my husband and tell him the truth. There was no need to waste the time thinking of a convenient lie, Franklin was going to be pissed at me regardless. But for the sake of my partner, the backlash would be worth it…hopefully.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Follow and fav if you enjoyed this, or leave a review! Your honest feedback is greatly appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys, I'm back with a new chapter! Sorry for the long wait. Prepare for angst and lots of fluff! Warning, there is mentions of suicide, so if that's a trigger for you, I apologize. ****Enjoy :)**

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It was a stormy night, heavy clouds scudded across the dark sky, rain poured down in torrents over the luminous city streets. It was difficult to find a lift to Smith's place in such bad weather conditions, but I refused to give up. After fifteen minutes of trying to hail a cab, and god knows how long of a drive, I arrived at his white brick building on Elgin avenue. I've never been here personally, this part of Downtown Los Santos was foreign to me, but I knew where he lived well enough. The very first day we began working together, he saved his address in my phone, gave me a key and said, 'In case of emergency, if I am not at my office, you can always find me here, love.'

And here I was, standing outside his apartment drenched from head to toe, and shivering. After a few failed attempts of slipping the key into the lock due to the violent trembling of my fingers, finally, I got the door open.

"Smith?" I called out to him as I stepped into a narrow hall, shadows clung to the slate-colored walls and low popcorn ceilings. There was no reply however, the place was dead silent. I pressed on through the darkness until I found the living room, brightened by lamplight, my partner sat hunched over a cluttered desk of case files in lonely silence, his tapered back facing me. A near empty bottle of Scotch in one hand, he was holding something with a silvery gleam in the other.

A few more steps closer into the light and I managed to make out what the glinting object was…a handgun. He had a pistol pressed against his own head—_oh my god!_ My eyes watered from the horrible sight. The thought of losing him stabbed at my heart, shattering my self-control. Panic rioting within me, I lunged at him, snatched the weapon from his hand and tossed the awful thing aside.

Swept away by emotion, I scolded him ruthlessly. "Smith, what the hell do you think you're doing? What's wrong with you? Are you crazy or something?"

Smith gazed at me and winced, his blue eyes bloodshot and glistening wide with a tortured disbelief. "T-tracey, love, I-I thought…" He stuttered, and then cleared his throat. "I thought you would not come…" With a shaky hand, he rose his bottle to his lips, swallowing the last bit down. "I must make for a pitiful sight, don't I?"

Although I trembled, distraught, the chill of anxiety coursing through my veins, I couldn't help but take note of his lean, athletic form. White-collared shirt open and his black slacks unbuttoned and sagging slightly below his hips, my eyes drank in the arousing view of his sculpted v-line and rippling abs, as well as his clean-shaven chest. He didn't look pitiful at all—no, he was always gorgeous, even moreso now, raw and vulnerable, unconcerned with the triviality of upkeeping his usual spick-and-span appearance.

He shifted away from me, head bowed, a swath of wavy hair fell casually on his forehead. "You should not be here," he said, his voice low and brooding, unlike himself. "It's…it's inappropriate. Forgive me, if I could take back that deplorable text, I would—"

"Would you rather me get a call in the middle of the night from some stranger telling me my best friend is dead? That he killed himself?" Blinking back my tears, I beat my fist against his broad shoulder. "Do you have any idea how that'll affect me? Your daughter? Your parents? You can't die, idiot! This city needs you. I _need_ you."

He swiveled around in his chair to face me, his brows arched. "You need me?"

I stroked the elegant ridge of his freckled cheekbone. "I do, Olly."

"Sweetheart, you have a family. I will ruin you, I will ruin everything." Nuzzling his cheek into the palm of my hand, he closed his eyes, pearl-shaped tears twinkled beneath his lashes. "Just let me go—"

"No! Stop talking like that! Snap out of it!" I latched onto his shoulders and shook him roughly. "Whatever horrible crap you're going through right now that's making you feel this way, man up and deal with it, because you're not going anywhere. You're stuck here with me. I won't let you go, you're not allowed to give up, okay? There's so many people to save, so much left for us to do."

Smith stood, towering over me, his weary blue eyes stared down into mine. "Los Santos, the city I swore to heal, to protect, continues to crumble around me despite my best efforts. My daughter is gone, I suffered and sacrificed so much for her. In the end, none of it mattered. And the worst part of it all? The wounds won't heal, I cannot cope with my harsh reality, nor the pain and misery brewing within me because my mind is utterly consumed by _you_. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I can barely function…"

Tongue-tied, I merely stared, frozen in place by his bluntness.

Smith was dark, and remarkably deadly. He was a trained killer with godlike reflexes and years of skill under his belt. Bad guys that were deemed 'worthy of punishment' in his words, he would often dispose of them brutally. It was difficult to watch. I've witnessed him kill people with seemingly harmless, mundane utensils like butter knives and forks, even a spatula once—when, where, and how did he learn how to do it? No idea. But when he reached out and clasped my neck with gentle, heartrending care, I gasped as if the wind had been knocked from my lungs, my knees wobbly.

How could someone so ruthlessly vengeful, who could kill meticulously and without shame, be capable of such tenderness?

"What have you done to me?" he murmured, gravitating closer, the rich fragrance of his cologne surrounded me. Face to face, he lingered before me, devilishly handsome, his wonderfully symmetrical features such a guilty pleasure to marvel at. Desire clawed at me, hot and sharp. Pulling away crossed my mind, but his firm grasp on my throat thwarted any attempt to do so. Our breath mingled and I could taste the bitterness of the whiskey he drank on the tip of my tongue.

"Do you feel it too, this yearning?" His lips brushed against mine with every word. "Every day I see you, aware that I cannot touch you the way I want to, I feel like I'm starving. Do you have any idea what that's like? To wait and wait, dying for a taste of someone you can never have?"

I closed my eyes against the surge of arousal building inside me from his seductively accented tone. He had laid all his emotions on the table. There was something so sexy about a man who could put aside his pride and be completely vulnerable. God, he smelled so good. His lean frame radiated heat and lust, spurring an uncontrollable need between my legs. He had barely touched me, yet I was aching for him. My cheeks heated. How did he do it? I wanted him. Bad.

As if he could read my mind, his palms found my hips, squeezing, pinning my body to his. "Kiss me, love," he pleaded. "Give me that much, just this once."

I swallowed deep. "Smith, I'm…I'm married."

"I am aware." He took a step back and sighed heavily. "Forgive me for being so forward, I don't know what came over me—"

Eager to taste him, driven by lust too long denied, I lunged forward and gave him what he wanted. We shared a slow, thoughtful kiss, featherlight and tender. His firm lips were gentler than I imagined them to be, as well as the delicate motion of his hands curving under my thighs to sweep me off my feet. Our lips remained locked as I straddled him. My purse hit the floor, and then my hands were in his silky hair, sliding through it, tugging. The intimacy sent electricity through my body, breathing life into me. The raging beat of our hearts were synchronized, pounding like a melody. Our kiss didn't end until we were forced to pull back for air, leaving my mouth burning with fire.

Panting, Smith's beautiful face was flushed red and his eyes were a startlingly blue, sparkling with emotion. My hand in his hair moved to his cheek, my fingers brushing over it. "You're so cute when you blush."

The compliment deepened the scarlet blossoming across his face. "The things you do to me, love."

Lowering his head, he sealed his mouth over mine again. My eyelids fluttered closed. I sighed, giving into the pleasure he offered, his tongue glided inside, seducing me with deep thrusts. Swooning over the passionate kiss and the sensation of his very impressive length straining against his slacks, pressed against me, made it very hard to focus on anything else besides my fierce longing for him. My brain faltered, heat curled inside me, I whimpered helplessly against his lips as he kissed me again and again.

He shivered, his hold on my hips tightening, driving me mad. I was distantly aware of being whisked from one room to another, my back gently hit the cool sheets of a bed. Instead of climbing on top of me like any sensible man in this situation would, he merely laid at my side, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Concerned, I perched myself up on my elbows and gazed at him. He was tearing up again, his sad doe-eyes swollen from crying. My heart clenched. I crawled on top of him, straddling his waist, I tickled his sides to get a laugh out of him.

Smith snorted and squirmed, pulling away. I followed him, ending my tickle assault and forming fists instead. "Wanna playfight like we always do when we're bored?"

"No," he muttered, quiet and subdued. "Not tonight."

"Why not? C'mon, you love fighting! I bet it'll make you feel better." My body hovering above his, I threw sluggish, playful punches at him. It was difficult to do, considering I'd much rather kiss him than cause any physical harm, but I was desperate to cheer him up. Instinctively, he blocked my attacks with little effort, like always.

An amused twitch of his mouth split the somberness of his face. "Enough," he caught my wrists and drew me into his embrace, his tear-streaked face nuzzled mine. "If you are trying to console me, you are doing an awful job."

"Why are you smiling then?"

"Hmm." The ghost of a grin touching his face quickly faded.

With a frown, I shifted from his warm arms to stare into his wounded gaze. The raw pain glittering in them brought tears to my eyes. "I effing hate it when you're sad."

"I don't want to be." He reached up, curling a finger around a lock of my hair. "Please, love, do not despair over me."

"I can't _not_ worry about you. You're my best friend."

"And I am yours. Always."

We held hands in silence for a moment, our fingers intertwined. I stared at the ring on my finger. _If Franklin ever found out about this…_

Now that the lust boiling in my veins had come to a calm, the image of Smith holding a gun to his own head was burned into my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about it. My chest tightened. Smothering a sob, I muttered, "You were going to leave me."

The pad of his thumb brushed over my cheek, wiping away my tears. "Do you need me, truly?"

"I—"

He pressed a finger to my lips, silencing me. "Answer honestly. Do not patronize me."

"I meant it," I confessed. "With all my heart. You have no idea how much it scared me when I walked in on you with that gun. I can't lose you, Smith."

"Oh, sweetheart, forgive me. I am so sorry. I didn't know how you felt, I didn't know…" He rose, showering my lips and jaw with small, apologetic kisses. "I will not leave. I will stay with you as long as you will have me, until the end of time if I must, if it so pleases you."

My skin tingled. He was such a hopeless romantic. "You can't live only for me, silly. There's gotta be something else out there that makes your life worth living. You'll be totally miserable otherwise."

"It's a small price to pay in exchange for your happiness. The sight of your beautiful smile alone is worth waking up for again and again, no matter how insufferable the everyday notions of life may be."

In one forward motion, I was lifted into the cradle of his arms, my curves molding into the contours of his lean body. I sank into his comforting grasp, my head fit perfectly between the hollow of his shoulder and neck. His touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness. Even at his lowest, less than an hour after an effing suicide attempt, he had completely devoted himself to soothing me, as if his emotional trauma meant little in comparison to mine. To him, I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I squeezed him tighter. My heart ached for him. He deserved better.

My gaze drifted from the cute beauty mark on his temple down to the tiny little moles dusting the nape of his neck. I could spend hours just looking at him, his uniquely perfect features held a certain sensuality. He was pleasing to the eye, his blonde hair gleamed in the light, but underneath all that beauty was an inexplicable sorrow. But why? What happened to him?

"So…" I stroked the light stubble on his chin. "I know you're upset about something. Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," he said. "However, I have a feeling that is not going to stop you from prying."

"You're right. Besties don't keep things from each other, remember? If you tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help you fix it. Is it about Phoebe?"

"No. Phoebe left to live with her aunt. She made her decision, and she's right, the states are unsafe. I miss her dearly, but this is for the best."

"Okay, if it's not Phoebe, then what?"

"There is a chemical imbalance in my brain, probably. I was diagnosed with depression very early on in my life."

"Oh. Was this the first time you've ever, you know, tried to…"

"End it?" he finished my sentence.

I nodded.

"Yes," he wiped his eyes, and cleared his throat, his voice returning to its usual smooth, composed tone. "I've thought about it _thoroughly_ for a lengthy period of time, since I was a teenager in fact. Tonight was the night I had finally mustered the strength to see it through."

I winced. "You need to go back to therapy."

"If I could find a decent therapist, perhaps I will."

"How old were you when you were diagnosed with depression?"

"Fourteen."

"What triggered you? Did something happen? Was it your parents? I hope yours weren't psychopaths like mine, I had plenty of depressive episodes in my life because of my crappy upbringing. It led to drug abuse, some crazy ass partying and multiple walks of shame, but thankfully it was just a phase. What about you?"

"I'm feeling a bit peckish," he blurted. "Would you like a bite to eat, love?"

"Um…" I stared at him blankly. Why was he evading my questions? "I ate before I came over, I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense, come share a snack with me. Or at least have some tea, please, I insist."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Hey, I totally saw what you did there. You can't just avoid my questions by distracting me with offers of food. I'm not dumb, I don't have an one-track mind—"

"I'll bake you a cake," he countered.

"_Cake?_" I gasped. "Really? What kind of cake are you gonna make? Can I watch?"

"Of course." He pulled himself to his feet, his arms lifted me with ease. I hooked my arms around his neck, my head tucked comfortably beneath his chin. He didn't let go for a long moment, his clasp on me strong, almost painful as if I might slip through his fingers. His heartbeat thudded, and his breathing grew heavy.

"You seem tense," I pointed out. "Are you okay?"

"I am well," he answered. "Better than I have been in quite some time. I have you."

I looked up and met his gaze steadily. Tension emitted from his body in waves, but his eyes swept over my face with unbridled adoration, alive and sparkling like stars in the night. His open affection for me was enough to illuminate our dim-lit surroundings better than any manmade light ever could. Far from home, lingering in the gloomy unfamiliarity of this apartment, I felt safe. Secure. Protected.

I trailed a path with my finger along his defined jawline. It was nice to feel such an impeccable, chiseled work of art beneath my fingertips. With a breathtaking angular face, a straight blade of a nose and finely etched, kissable lips such as his, he was the prime male specimen to admire. One look at his bone structure and a sculptor would burst into sobs of joy. _God_, it wasn't fair. He shouldn't be allowed to walk around looking like that, savagely gorgeous and completely aloof of the beauty he emanated.

I inhaled, savoring his spicy, masculine scent. "I want cake, but I don't want you to let me go."

"Quite the predicament, isn't it?" He pressed his cheek to my temple. "If only I could keep you close like this all the time, every night."

"I think you'd get tired of me."

Suddenly I was back on the bed, his hard body crushed to mine, nose to nose, his gaze strikingly intense as it bore into me. "Get tired of you?" He uttered a soft, husky laugh that rumbled deep in his chest. "Can't you see, love? Your feelings are reciprocated. I need you too. Do not _ever_ doubt that, understand?"

Rendered speechless from his sweet words, I answered him with physical affection instead, leaving a single kiss on his lips before moving onto his neck, ravishing his flushed skin with mouth, teeth, and tongue. The most erotic groan spilled from his lips in response, a ragged sound of tormented pleasure that spurred the ache between my legs once again. I kept going, sucking on the sensitive spots that made him quiver and clench his jaw. He was feverish for me. It was one hell of a power trip too. With all his tremendous power and steely control, even Smith had a weakness.

A violent shiver passed through him, one hard enough to shake me too. "Tracey…" Trembling and struggling to catch his breath as he fumbled to speak, his heat left me. "Y-you are far…far too good at that. I-I daresay I am impressed."

I clung to his waist and nuzzled my face against his chest, immediately erasing the distance between us. "Hey, don't run away from me."

"Forgive me, I…" He trailed off, seeming to retreat into his thoughts as he threaded his shaky fingers through my hair.

His handsome face was red as a tomato, features tight and harsh with lust. His eyes had darkened and dilated so much they appeared black. Clearly, I had driven him to the brink of his self-control. Instead of giving into his yearning, he restrained himself. Considering I have a husband, I didn't press the issue any further. Kissing another man was bad, but sex was worse. This was for the best. Still, I worried about my best friend. Is he holding back because I'm married, or was there something else he wasn't telling me?

It took a moment for him to regain his composure. "Tell me, where does your ball and chain think you are right now?"

I swallowed deep before answering. "He has no idea. I had to sneak away to get to you."

"Oh dear," he planted an appreciative kiss atop my head. "You should not linger then. When will I see you again?"

"I don't know. It depends on how pissed Franklin is."

"We still have a case to solve."

"We do."

"The chances of the child's survival is slim to none. We wasted too much time, the both of us so deeply preoccupied with our personal lives, you especially being a new mother and all."

I chuckled sheepishly. "Why do you put up with me? I'm sure you can find a better, more experienced partner. I'm literally just a headache."

"I will not give up on you. Neither of us is perfect."

"I'm not a cop or a federal agent. I'm a liability to you, all I do is get in the way—"

His hand covered my mouth. "Take a good look at me, love, and tell me whether or not you see a man who's easily deterred."

Eyes narrowed, his expression was hard, filled with implacable determination. Whether I was a liability or not, it wasn't enough to keep him away from me. I hugged his waist tighter.

"You are going to kiss me one last time," he asserted, lowering his palm from my face. "Then I will escort you home, agreed?"

My heart fluttered wildly in my breast as I rose to comply with his demand, my lips brushed over his as I spoke, "What about the cake?"

"Another day when time is on our side, I will bake the cake for you." His breath was warm as it fanned my face. He slipped a hand under my dress and kneaded my behind, exploring the contours of my body slowly, worshipfully. His touch burned into my tingling skin. "It will be a decadent dessert, mouthwatering, pleasurable for both you and I. You will savor every moment consuming what I have to offer you. You will fall in love with the taste, the sensation…"

He gripped the back of my neck with one hand and my waist with the other, arching his hips so I could feel the wonderful throbbing fullness trapped within the confines of his slacks. Heat stealing into my face, I shivered. Holy effing crap, he was so hot. A smirk tipped the corners of his mouth. "It will be better than you have ever had before, I assure you."

My breath caught. I really wanted that cake.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter guys! Leave a review, let me know what you think, your feedback is greatly appreciated! Love you guys, thank you for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, I'm back with an update! I have TWO chapters for you guys tonight because I love you that much! Please enjoy!**

* * *

It was a quarter past midnight when I arrived home. With more than ten missed calls from my husband, I knew he was going to be pissed. If the roles were reversed, I'd be upset too. Panicking. Scared. The moment I stepped through the front door, his voice found me.

"Where you been?"

Franklin lingered by the wine cabinet, shrouded by darkness, he held a Black and Mild in one hand and a glass of Merlot in the other.

"I hate it when you smoke," I muttered, slipping out of my heels.

"Gotta have some way to relieve stress while my wife is out runnin' the streets," his tone was nasty, loaded with ridicule.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't be an asshole, Frank."

"Don't bullshit me, Trace."

"You're overreacting." I set my purse down on the coffee table and flopped on the leather couch, resting my aching feet. "My friend needed me for something, that's all. I wasn't 'running the streets', or whatever the hell that even means."

Blunt fingers clenched tight around the stem of his glass, the fragile goblet snapped in two, shattering on the floor. I scrambled stiffly to my feet, staring wide-eyed at the ugly black wine splattered on our white carpet. "Frank! Jesus, look what you did!" I hurried into the kitchen, snatched a row of paper towels, and returned to the living room. Clicking on the nearest lamp, I dropped to my knees and scrubbed furiously at the stain. "Oh my god, it won't come out!"

"Who gives a fuck 'bout the carpet? I'll buy a new one."

"_I care!_" I blurted. "This one cost us a fortune."

"What you mean, 'us'? I bought this crib, you didn't contribute a motherfuckin' thing—"

Heat licked my skin. I jolted upright and glared up at him. He was huge compared to me, a towering slab of dark, sexy, and sometimes very intimidating, solid muscle. I wasn't gonna back down though. Not tonight. "I know you're upset," I said, gritting my teeth in an effort to calm down. "But that doesn't give you the right to talk to me like that."

He sighed through flared nostrils. "I love you, baby," he said, sweetly, his hazel eyes softened, shimmering beautifully beneath the warm glow of the lamplight, stirring a deep yearning within me. "I don't wanna fight with you, girl, but the way you dipped on me earlier…" He grimaced, scrubbing a hand over his rugged face. "Why you hidin' shit from me?"

His accusation stung like needles, and the worst part was, he wasn't wrong. "I can explain—"

Franklin took hold of my wrist and pointed at the faded bruises on my arm. "Explain that. You come home every night with scars and shit. What the fuck is goin' on with you?"

Shame rolled through me like hot lava, burning me from the inside out. Speechless, I jerked back, holding my arm close to my chest.

"What? You think I didn't notice?" Full lips drawn back in a silent snarl, he sucked his teeth. "I ain't stupid."

"I-I never said you were," I mumbled, lips trembling as I fought back tears.

He drew a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigar. A silence thick as mud oozed between us as he took a moment to fill his lungs with smoke, exhaling through his nostrils. "When you lie to me like that, girl, you insult my intelligence."

I swallowed past the knot of emotion in my throat and reached out to my husband. "Don't." He stepped back and held up a hand, warning me to keep my distance. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you a'ight. There's some shit I gotta handle, I'll be back tomorrow." He strode for the door.

His rejection left me stunned, my misery held me down like a steel weight, feet rooted to the spot. How could he abandon me like I was nothing? It was humiliating. "_I'm your wife!"_ I screamed at the top of my lungs. "You can't just leave and not tell me where you're going!"

Franklin halted at the door. "Hurts, don't it?"

His mocking words hit me like body blows, a sourness loomed in the pit of my stomach. I swept up a shoe and threw it at him. "Fuck you!"

Ignoring my flaring temper, he spoke calmly. "I'll hit up a babysitter for Emma, since you never have time for her. Maybe this whole parenting thing ain't for you."

He left without a backward glance. Without a good-bye. What about our vows? What happened to forever?

My knees gave out and I wept aloud, rocking back and forth. He was gone. _He left me._ That night, I never felt more alone in my entire life.

* * *

I woke up to an empty bed and a text from Smith first thing in the morning.

**There are new developments regarding our case. Meet me at the office, I'll let the front desk know you are coming.**

I took my sweet time rolling out of bed. I was exhausted, my eyelids heavy from tossing and turning all night. The babysitter was already here, thank god. I didn't have the energy for Emma today. Lacking the motivation to do my hair or use makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes, I threw on some jeans, a sweater and pulled the hood over my head. For the first time ever, I was glad for the chilly temperature.

I arrived at the bureau with a slight throbbing in the back of my skull, my mind worn by thoughts of the argument Franklin and I had. Hurt and vulnerable, I sought the comfort of my best friend. He was nowhere to be found, however. Instead, his office was occupied by a strange willowy woman in an elegant blue sheath dress, her face pale and powered, heavily made up, the roots of her blonde, French braided hair dusted with age. She bit down on her rouged, crimson red lips as she rummaged through the files on Smith's desk.

I cleared my throat. "Um, hello? What do you think you're doing?"

Her head snapped in my direction. With a cocky smirk, she sunk into Smith's leather chair as if she owned the place. "And who might you be?" she asked, her accent distinctly British.

"I'm Agent Smith's partner. Who are you?"

"Partner?" She leaned back, crossing one long, ruddy leg over the other. "I thought he prefers to work alone."

"He does, but I'm an exception."

"Is that so? He must see something special in you, dear." She rolled her eyes, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Lucky you."

I crossed my arms over my chest. _Who the hell is this lady? She's kind of a bitch._

Smith breezed through the door. He froze at the sight of the strange woman occupying his desk.

"Oliver," she greeted.

"Mary," he muttered somewhat irritably. "To what do I owe such an intrusion?"

"Intrusion?" A hand flew to her chest, her jaw dropped in mock surprise. "Dear brother, are you not happy to see me? It's been years."

"I could've gone a couple more, to be honest. Now, off you go. Cheers for stopping by." He waved a hand dismissively, shooing her away.

She spun around in his chair playfully. "If you want this seat, you'll have to say please."

He glared at her, his eyes brutal and unfriendly. "_Move._"

"Struck a nerve, did I?" She shot up, her shoulder brushed his roughly as she stood aside.

Smith reclaimed his rightful seat and began to neatly arrange the files spread across his desk. "Mary, I do not know what you seek to achieve by coming here, and quite frankly, I do not care. Best quit while you are ahead."

"Our father is lying on his deathbed as we speak," said Mary, clutching at her necklace of pearls. "There's a cancerous tumor in his noggin. The doctors say he has less than a week to live. They claim there's nothing they can do. Can you believe it? Those filthy nurses and physicians—they're bloody useless. We should rid them of their medical licenses."

"I see." Unfazed by the news, he leaned into his seat, his tone cool and detached. "You took a flight from London to Los Santos just to tell me that?"

"I would've phoned but we both know you wouldn't have answered." She rooted through her glittery clutch purse, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

"Smoking is not allowed on the premises."

"That won't stop me." She lit the cigarette and dragged deeply; the gray stench filled the air. "I know we have bad history, Oliver, but our father's dying wish is to see you. What's it going to take to bring you home?"

He snorted, "A miracle."

"Spare me your tasteless humor, you pernicious muppet. This is no time for quips or petty remarks. Our father is staring into the blackness of the abyss, scared and alone, waiting for his inevitable end—"

"One can only hope he passes on soon," Smith replied casually. "The world can do with one less insufferable bastard."

She let out a tight-lipped grin, shaking her head. "I knew this would be a waste of my time. You haven't changed, your heart is still black as night. Mother's dead, consumed by grief over her wayward son, and now you aim to kill Father too."

Smith rose and stamped up to her. "You crawl into my office like a rat, sticking your filthy nose where it does not belong, polluting my space with your stench." He snatched the cigarette from her lips and stomped it out beneath his heel. "You insult and provoke me with the deluded belief I am obligated to fulfill Daddy's last little wish—after years and years of neglect, he deserves my mercy? My reprieve?" A sneer curled his lips. "You are mad."

She caught his gaze, her fingers curved under his chin. He tensed but did not pull away. "There's hatred burning in your eyes, dear brother. Such contempt can stiffen the knees like steel and clutch the feet like a hawk's talons. It'll drag you down, deeper and deeper until you sink."

"A little late for you to be concerned for my wellbeing, don't you think? You should have been there when I needed you."

"This is about what she did to you, isn't it? Amelia—"

"Don't you dare speak that name!" Trembling, vicious hostility emanating from him in waves, he thrust his face toward her and hissed, "Leave! Begone or else I will call security."

Mary stumbled back, startled, streaks of black tears ran down her powdered face. "Bloody miserable bastard!" In a whirl of rage, she tossed the nicely stacked case files on his desk onto the floor. "You've always been a pitiful excuse of a man!" She stormed out, heels clicking harshly against the tiled floor.

I swallowed deep, closing the door behind her. And I thought my family was dysfunctional…

Smith sank into his seat with his face in his hands, shoulders slumped. I picked up his papers and set them back down in its proper place. "Smith? Are you okay?"

"Swell," he murmured with an edge of sarcasm. Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, he lowered his hands to gaze at me. "Forgive me for the spectacle you just witnessed. If I had known she was going to pop in so brazenly, I would not have called you here."

Why did he hate his father? What happened between him and his sister to make them so hostile toward one another? Who the heck was Amelia? I had so many questions, but now wasn't the time to pry and reopen old wounds. He was upset enough already, his eyes stricken with a glazed sadness. I crawled into his lap, wound my arms inside his suit jacket and around his back, nuzzling my face against the corded muscles of his chest. His trembling limbs clung to me, and in that moment, we were miserable together, bonded in our suffering. It was strangely comforting.

He brushed the pad of his thumb over my cheek, the tender gesture of affection was severely intimate, and I was grudgingly beginning to depend on receiving those touches. "This is neither the time nor place for such intimacy." Despite his words, he did not release me. Instead, he drew me closer. "I am breaking all my rules with you."

"Screw rules," I yawned. "They're made to be broken."

"Quite the rebel, aren't you?" He pulled down my hood, his gaze searched my face. "Are you well? You look utterly exhausted."

"I am. I didn't sleep well last night."

"May I ask why?"

"Frank doesn't trust me." It hurt to say out loud. My stomach twisted in knots. "He left, and I don't know where he is."

Smith winced, "He left you? Goodness…" He bowed his head and dropped a kiss in my messy hair. "Worry not, I am certain he will return, sweetheart. We can pause our investigation if you need to mentally recoup. Perhaps a day of self-care is in order. I can slip away from work for a time. Shall I phone a nearby spa? I can fetch you food afterward—"

"No, no," I said. "As nice as that sounds, you have a job to do and I'm here to help you. Let's continue the investigation, it'll keep my mind off things."

"There is a suspect to be apprehended, questioned, and detained. It will not be pleasant."

"I can handle it."

With one hand on my waist, he used the other to open a sliding drawer. Inside was the blood-encrusted hammer believed to be the weapon used to murder Shanice Jones. "Remember this? According to forensics, Otto, the Sandy Shores mechanic, is the criminal we are looking for. His fingerprints are all over it."

"Really?" My body perked up at the news. "He's the murderer? I knew it!"

"So it seems. He has motive, she keyed those cars but what did he do with poor little Nancy?"

"Once the sicko's under arrest, we can ask him whatever we want—"

There was a knock at the door. Reluctantly, I withdrew from my partner's warmth. He straightened his red tie and pat down the noticeable creases I made in his charcoal suit during our snuggling session. I smiled, watching him meticulously groom himself for imperfections. He always had to be presentable, especially at the workplace. Even a speck of dust bothered him. Although his shoulders were spotless, I came up behind him, stood on the tip of my toes and dusted them off anyway.

"You're good," I said. "Don't worry."

He gave my hand an affectionate squeeze before opening the door. Agent Dave Norton paced in, hands twitchy, his pudgy, weathered face twisted into a scowl. Cadillac slipped in behind him. He looked more threatening than ever geared from the neck down in black body armor. Grenades were strapped to his tactical vest and a giant high-powered rifle dangled from his broad shoulder. The ballistic shield on his back had to weigh a ton. _Whoa._ Who was he going to war with?

However, the moment he greeted me with a wide, goofy smile, my fear of him instantly dispersed. Giggling, I waved at him. Norton, seemingly distraught by something, rushed over to Smith. "Those fucking bank robbers," he blurted, and then stabbed a finger at me. "Your father is going to ruin everything!"

I clung to Smith's arm, instinctively seeking his protection from the sudden outburst. _What the heck is going on?_

Smith blinked at Norton. "Pardon?"

"Olly," Cadillac took Smith's side and squeezed his shoulder. "I saw Mary in the main lobby on the way in. You alright?"

"I am well, thank you," Smith replied. "A pleasure to see you, but why are you here?"

"I called him," Norton answered. "I have a problem that needs fixing, and you two are going to handle it quick and efficiently. You have an unique skill set, Agent Smith, and I heard you and the undercover cop here work well together."

"Sorry to drop in on you like this, Olly, but federal agent Dickhead didn't give me much of a choice," Cadillac said. "Motherfucker threatened to blow my cover if I don't play along with his bullshit plan."

"The audacity…" A glint of scalding fury lit Smith's eyes as he glared at Norton. "You blackmail my mate and expect me to aid you?"

"I would if I were you," Norton retorted. "You're a goddamn vigilante—judge, jury, and executioner so you can get off your metaphorical fucking high horse, okay? You're no better than me, none of you are. Everyone and everything in this god forsaken city is fucked, including us."

"With all due respect, Norton, I have more pressing matters to attend to," said Smith with easy defiance. "If you have proof of misconduct on my part, by all means, do what you must. I am not stopping you."

"Dude," Cadillac nudged Smith, his eyes pleading. "I dunno about you, but if my cover's blown, I'm a dead man."

I clasped his tattooed arm. "We won't let you die," I glanced at Smith. "Right?"

Smith's gaze softened. "No, of course not," he sighed.

"You." Norton turned his attention to me, the heat of his glare burned a hole straight through my soul. "She shouldn't be here. She needs to leave."

Smith immediately came to my defense. "That simply won't do. She is my partner. Where she goes, I go."

"Whatever, it's your funeral." He shook his head. "Now listen up. Approximately two hours from now, the Blaine County Savings Bank in Chumash Plaza is going to be hit by three professional bank robbers. They are wanted fugitives, armed and extremely dangerous."

"You want us to take 'em down?" Cadillac asked.

Norton shook his head. "No. I want you to help them."

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**Hope you enjoyed the chapter! If so, please proceed to the next :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter is going to be a lot crazier than the previous ones, enjoy the chaos!**

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We arrived at the Chumash Plaza strip with fifteen minutes to spare before the heist. Smith parked our surveillance van in a tight alley between Ammunation and Suburban. Blaine County Savings bank was at the end of the strip. To the north, the crystal blue sea glittered beneath the hot desert sun. Gentle waves rolled inland, dissolving into white fuzz among the coastline. Jet Skis and power boats thundered past, conquering the tides. It was an impressive view, but I was way too anxious to enjoy it.

Distressfully aware of the numerous armed guards posted outside the bank, I wiped my damp palms on the thighs of my jeans. "I'm scared."

Cadillac sat cross-legged on the floor of the van, flipping through the pages of a furniture magazine. "You and me both, hon. We're too pretty to die."

"No one is going to die," Smith loaded a full magazine into his handgun. "This will be a breeze—"

"For you," Cadillac muttered. "You get to chill in the whip and relax while I pick a fight with the entire fucking sheriff's department by _myself_. It's suicide, no way I'm surviving this shit."

Norton's voice spouted from our earpieces. "I wouldn't have chosen you for this mission if I didn't think you were capable, Corporal Jackson."

"Corporal?" I glanced at Cadillac. "You were in the military?"

He nodded. "Ex-Marine."

"We'll be fine," said Norton, hovering inconspicuously overhead within the safety of his helicopter. "I'll provide air support. Crime rates are through the roof in Chumash and the police presence is up forty-five percent to combat the violence. Still, they're not prepared for the shitstorm we're about to throw their way."

Smith said, "After the Union Depository robbery, it was required by law for Los Santos banks to install heat sensors, motion detectors, fingerprint and retina scans…"

Cadillac unclasped the nylon straps of his thick vest, pulling it off, and then shrugged out of his gray compression shirt. I stared wide-eyed at his bare, tattooed torso. His chest was enormous, built like a barrel and looked hard as bricks. There was a deep scar trailing up the hollow of his naval. A knife wound? Unashamed and unapologetic for his sudden nudity, he shifted, combing through his cargo pockets for something, the slight ripple of deep brown muscle warning of his enormous strength.

He wrangled a bottle of Vaseline from his pockets and began rubbing oil on his massive biceps. I tensed. _Wow. _With a body like that, it was really hard not to stare.

Smith reclined into his seat, eyes closed, resting his head as if there wasn't a half-naked guy slathering oil on himself less than two feet away from us. Apparently, this was totally normal.

"It makes the skin more elastic," Cadillac muttered, conscious of my gaze. "Won't cut as easy in a fight. Also reduces the appearance of scars, you want some?"

"No thanks," I feigned a smile.

"About these bank robbers, Dave," said Cadillac. "Why would so-called 'professionals' try to loot a place with _this_ much security? Look at all these guards, man. There's gotta be easier joints to hit."

"They are good at what they do, but they also happen to be egotistical pricks," Norton explained. "Expect the worse, especially from Trevor Philips."

Goosebumps rippled my skin as I heard Uncle T's name. _Oh no… _

If Trevor was one of the three bank robbers, chances are, Dad was the second. They've been partners in crime for years, literally inseparable.

Cadillac huffed out a half laugh. "You aren't very fond of these guys, huh? Hey, isn't it our job to arrest fugitives, not help them?"

"I've been wondering the same thing," Smith said. "Do you plan to inform us anytime soon? I am dying to hear your reasoning behind this nonsense. The mystery is killing me."

"Maybe it's a secret," Cadillac added. "The fat, lazy fuck probably made a deal with the bank robbers. We do all the hard work, probably die, he gets a cut of the stash. Am I right?"

"Wrong," Norton grumbled. "It's not what you think."

"Tell us the truth then," I said. "It's the least you can do for roping us into this."

"Fine," Norton sighed heavily. "In '04, I took down the 'Most Wanted Man in America', Michael Townley. At least, that's what the world thinks. The truth is, we made a deal in exchange for his freedom. He faked his death, disappeared, and I got one hell of a promotion. If he's detained and the truth gets out…"

"Your career would be over," Smith mocked him with a tsking sound. "How unfortunate."

"And I thought the LSPD was shady," Cadillac said. "You FIB assholes are worse than us."

"It takes a fair share of ingenuity to get away with faking a man's death," Smith said. "Although I am sure the LSPD would jump at the opportunity to elevate their corruption, they lack wit and initiative. The lot of them cannot manage to wipe their own shite from their backsides."

"It's true," Norton added. "The LSPD is pretty shitty."

Cadillac slapped Smith's shoulder with his magazine. "Bro, really? You're hurting my feelings, man."

"You are an exception, dear friend. I daresay you are the most competent in the force, an absolute pleasure to work with."

"Aw, you're gonna make me blush, Olly. In case we die today, I want you to know you're the best bud a piece of shit cop like me could ever have."

Smith chuckled, "I'm touched. Truly."

I smiled. They were so cute. "Now kiss."

"Nah, wouldn't want to make you jealous," Cadillac smirked.

"Jealous?" I pressed my hand to my chest and batted my lashes at him. "Are you kidding me? There's nothing hotter than two straight guys kissing."

Smith rubbed his chin, his face firmly set in deep thought. "Straight men in a lip lock…quite the paradox. I do not believe that's possible—"

Cadillac shrugged. "I dunno, man, might be possible. Jailbirds say its only fruity if you kiss, but what if it's the sex that makes it gay? Ever thought about that? Mind-blowing, right? You can be homies with benefits and therefore straight, only if you don't proceed past first base."

"Homies with benefits can't be a real thing," I said.

"Depends on how lonely and desperate you are. A hole is a hole—"

"_Jesus Christ!"_ Norton blurted. "What on earth is wrong with you kids?"

Smith nudged me playfully. "And you claim I'm a prude."

"Apparently there's someone worse than you." I stuck my tongue out at him.

"No more fucking around," Norton said. "The bank robbers will be here any minute. Everyone remember the plan?"

"Yeah, boss," Cadillac rubbed in the remainder of the petroleum on his face and began dressing himself. "I fuck shit up while Tracey and Olly makes sure the bank robbers don't get killed."

"Or arrested," I added.

"Good, now listen closely," Norton instructed. "Jackson, you need to get the LSSD pissed off enough that it takes the heat off the robbers, understand? Don't be afraid to use that grenade launcher. Blow the entirety of this desert off the fucking map if that's what it takes to get their attention."

Cadillac stood, securing his ballistic shield properly on his back. "There's gonna be a _shitload_ of casualties if I go through with this."

"This county is a shithole anyway," Norton replied. "And my goddamn job is on the line. Fuck this up and I'm taking you down with me."

"Alright, alright, I'm going." Cadillac took a moment to check his gun before stepping outside. "Getting into position now."

Smith reached out the window and caught his armored wrist. "Do not die."

He turned and bent over, leaning into the window to gaze at us. "Hey, I'll try not to. Promise me you two will do the same?"

"We promise," I said.

He pat Smith's shoulder in a rough gesture of brotherly love, flashed me a smile, then he was gone. My stomach clenched tight. "What if the police kill him? Or us?"

Smith laid a palm on my thigh, the warmth of his touch slightly settling my nerves. "It's not too late to change your mind, love. You don't have to do this."

"I can't just walk away from my dad and Uncle T, I have to help them. I have to do something."

"Are you sure?"

I nodded without hesitation.

"I know I can be rather strict regarding your use of firearms. You are not properly trained to act in high stress situations, but considering the severity of our predicament…" He opened the glove box and held out a gun. When I tried to take it, he pulled away. "Patience. Do you know how to use it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I've used a gun before. It's not rocket science."

He clasped the back of my neck firmly, his expression serious. "Listen, and listen well, you must be vigilant. Are you aware of the destruction this weapon can cause? The lives it can end? There is no room for negligence. No mistakes. Trust your instincts. You will shoot only when necessary, understand?"

Tears pricked my eyes at his sharp tone. His voice held no mercy, no passion. But he had every right to be stern, guns were deadly. I had to be strong, and willing to deal with the consequences if I screw up. Blinking away my tears, I grabbed the gun. "I can do this."

"The bank robbers are here," Norton warned. "I repeat, the bank robbers are on sight. Jackson, you are clear to engage with authorities."

"Roger." On cue, an explosion erupted in the distance, so loud and furious, the ground shook in its wake. I jerked at the sound. An ugly plume of smoke billowed into the sky to the east. Almost immediately the wail of police sirens rent the dry air, racing toward the source of the blast. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Even though I knew what to expect, it still scared the living crap out of me.

"Beautifully done!" Norton exclaimed, his usual disgruntled tone held a hint of admiration.

"God damn, that was one hell of a boom!" Cadillac shouted, high on adrenaline. "I think I outdone myself! Can I blow up more shit?"

"Best we keep the property damage to a minimum if we can help it. You already have a swarm of police heading your way. Focus on staying alive."

Gunshots pierced the drum of my ear. Whoever was shooting, they were close.

"Check the security cameras, sweetheart," Smith demanded, watching the road ahead of us intently. "I'll keep a lookout."

I scrambled to the computer in the back of the van and peered at the hacked live footage of the bank lobby. Dad and Uncle T were already inside, holding innocent people at gunpoint, their faces concealed by ski masks. The cheap disguises couldn't fool me. I knew their body shape and mannerisms like the back of my hand. We were rich, filthy rich. Why the heck was Dad robbing a bank? It didn't make sense.

Once a criminal, always a criminal, I guess.

There was a third person with them clad in black. He looked familiar. Like, _really_ familiar. His back faced the camera. If he would turn around for a second…

_Tap. Tap_. Someone was knocking on the car door. I flinched, my breath caught in my throat. Who could that be?

Smith stood, handgun holstered to his waist and concealed by his jacket, fearlessly he advanced to the sliding door. Stirring uneasily in my chair, I lunged for his hand. "Wait," I muttered. "You don't know who's on the other side. It could be dangerous. I-I can't lose you—"

His voice lowered to a whisper. "Whatever unknown entity that lies in wait—do you truly believe I, of all people, am incapable of handling it?" He snorted, teasing, all too confident of himself. "Where is your faith?"

Cheeks burning, I withdrew. Now wasn't the time for dramatics. My emotions were getting the better of me, I wasn't thinking straight. After everything we've been through, _he's _been through…it was best to stand back and let him take the reins.

Now that I was out of his way, he opened the door. There was a man on the other side, dressed in layers of dust-coated rags. His skin was obscured by muck and his hair was a tangled mop of gray, windblown and tarnished with sand. He carried a vile stench, a combination of puke and alcohol, rancid enough to churn the stomach. I swallowed hard, trying to control the urge to retch. _Gross!_

Within his dirt-encrusted hands was a tin can of coins. He shoved it in front of Smith's face, looking for a handout.

"Please," the beggar implored, his voice rough and grating as sandpaper.

Seemingly unbothered by the smell, Smith peeked over the beggar's head, scanning our surroundings. He stiffened, quickly slid the door shut, and drew his gun. The soft tapping on the window had turned into a furious banging. _Thump. Thump._ The van shook. Someone was trying to break in!

A pang of warning erupted in my chest. I rose from my seat, shouting over the commotion. "What's going on?"

Smith caught my arm, helping me maintain my footing as the car shifted violently. "Never thought I'd say this, but our vehicle is about to be raided by a band of enraged bums."

My heartbeat skyrocketed. "What? Are you serious?"

"I do recall Norton mentioning the violent crime rate here. Perhaps we should had heeded his warning—"

"It's too late for that! What are we going to do?"

"Patience, love. The opportunity will present itself." Unlike me, trembling and quaky in the knees, Smith remained upright, his impeccable balance and cool demeanor despite the chaos brewing around us was remarkable.

"Uh, guys," Cadillac said, his voice muffled by gunfire. "Turns out blowing up a tanker truck full of propane has a weird way of attracting everyone's attention. I got cops, and rednecks on my ass. Some help would be real nice."

Norton replied, "Air support is inbound, take cover."

The shooting in the distance intensified, the quiet beach town of Chumash became a war zone.

**_Crash_**! The windshield crumbled to pieces, shattered by a crowbar. Gnarled fingers latched onto the hood of the car. A face appeared, dirty, jet-black as coal, toothless and grinning. Smith lifted his gun with speed and precision. **_Bam!_** The bullet punched a hole through the eye of the grimy face, stopping its advance.

The back doors of the van pushed open with a _thud_, two strange men hopped aboard. My partner swerved to greet them, firing a single round into each of their chests. They sprawled backwards, bleeding on the hot sand. Our car was no longer shaking, thank god.

Police cruisers raced by, heading for the bank. _No! _My gaze darted to Smith. "We can't let them arrest Dad!"

"We gave your father more than enough time to make his getaway, I would think," Smith said. "What else can we do?"

I hated to beg, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "_Please._"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a disgruntled groan rose from the depths of his chest. "The things I do for you, love."

"You're doing this for Cadillac too—"

"Yo, my name is Andre," Cadillac said. "How many times do I gotta remind you—"

"Whatever." I grabbed Smith's hand and we sped off down the alley. As I stepped onto the crowded street of flashing lights, three armed figures emerged from the bank. Dad, Trevor—the sight of the third knocked breath from my chest. My heart sank to my toes.

Franklin. It was my husband.

_Oh my god._

Dad was the first to start shooting at the cops. Shots rang out on both sides, and soon, they were everywhere. Frozen in shock, hot lead zipped past my face. It was chaos, blinding destruction, all hell had broken loose and my husband was smacked right in the middle of it. My partner yanked me back into the brick cover of the passageway, sheltering me from the crossfire.

It was the three of them versus dozens of officers. They were pinned down, the road blocked by cruisers. How could anyone overcome such devastating odds? Tears welled in my eyes as the grim realization dawned on me. _This isn't going to end well._

The whir of helicopter blades beat the air above. A dark figure, a man I assumed, was suspended by wire beneath the aircraft. Who was it? Squinting my eyes for a better look, the huge gun and state-of-the-art riot gear was a dead giveaway.

"'Sup, motherfuckers," Cadillac said. "The cavalry has arrived!" With a deadly swoosh, a grenade spat from his weapon into the crowd of cruisers. **_Boom!_** Multiple vehicles combust into flames. The blast sparked a flurry of movement as the police scrambled for safety. But the destruction didn't stop there. Cadillac continued to lob explosives; the chopper rained down full-auto death along the street without remorse.

Using the distraction caused by Cadillac and Norton to their advantage, Dad began to load duffel bags of cash into the trunk of a vacant cruiser while Franklin took the wheel, Uncle T barreled inside after my husband. However, there were still some dumb cops who continued to pursue them. A single squad car managed to maneuver through the smoke, fire, and lead. The driver ramped up the speed with deadly intent, tires screeching. Two-thousand tons of force was heading straight for my dad, and he was too busy securing the stupid money in the trunk to notice a thing.

I burst from the alleyway into the street. "_Dad_!"

His gaze snapped to me, eyes widening. Smith emerged and took careful aim at the speeding cruiser. A single bullet spat from his hand. There was a _pop_, and the car skid out of control, ramming through the storefront window of the bank.

"Good shot," Norton said.

Cadillac grinned. "Meh, I've seen better."

With most of their pursuers dead or demoralized, Dad and the others peeled off, making their grand escape. Blood, scorching cars, and bullet casings littered the road. The blue sky was cloaked in a thick veil of smoke. The acrid odor polluting the atmosphere stung my eyes and burned my nose with every breath. The aftermath of war wasn't pretty.

"Corporal Jackson and I can handle things from here," Norton said. "Smith, Tracey—clear out. I suggest you two lay low for a while. I'll be in touch."

Smith touched a finger to his earpiece. "Andre? Will you be alright?"

"I'm better than alright, Olly!" Cadillac exclaimed, giving us a thumbs up from mid-air. "I'm having a blast, dude! Take your girl and get outta here, I'll find you later!"

We retreated to the van and took off. We drove and drove until the blare of sirens faded in the distance. Smith nosed us into an empty space at some random, shabby motel. I sighed, the stiffness in my limbs relaxed. Somehow, we aren't dead.

I raised a palm to my partner. "We did it! High-five?"

Mouth pressed into a thin line, Smith stared at me, silent, his blue eyes narrowed and hardened. Without a word, he stepped out of the car, leaving me behind. Baffled by his abrupt attitude, I shuffled after him. "Hey, what's wrong? What did I do—"

In one swift movement, he grabbed me, pinning me to the passenger door, my arms bound to my sides by his rough grip. "When will you learn to think before you act?" His voice deepened with powerful force; my blood ran cold from the angry outburst. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Tears blinded my eyes and choked my voice. "You're hurting me."

His posture grew rigid. He released me and staggered back a step, his freckled face pinched and brooding. "Forgive me, p-please, I sincerely apologize." Eyes watering, he struggled to keep his voice steady. "I-I do not mean to be unpleasant, or careless, I am so sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," I sniffed. "Just tell me what I did wrong so we can fix it."

"There are consequences for your actions, love. Your father saw me, he saw you…" As if the burden of our problem was too much to bear, he sagged against the van. "This complicates things."

A cold knot settled in my stomach. _Crap_._ He's right._ _Dad is gonna flip._ _He hates Smith with a passion._

I cupped his cheeks and wiped the tears brimming on his eyelashes. Every time I witnessed him crying, tortured over my stupid mistakes, a little piece of me died inside. "What if he's grateful you helped him? What if he forgives you?"

"Oh, sweetheart, if only you knew…" With a long, exhausted sigh, he took a moment to steady himself. "Your father's wrath knows no bounds. He is unhinged, destructive, ruthless in his vengeance, as am I." A short, depreciating laugh escaped him. "Perhaps your father and I are not so different."

"Look at me." I cradled his chin in my hand. Our eyes met. "I won't let him hurt you. I promise."

He leaned in, his forehead pressed against mine. The breeze shifted and his scent, a tantalizing mixture of sweat and cologne, filled my senses. "It is not me I worry for, love. It's you."

"What do you mean?"

"I made an oath to stay with you—to be yours, to satisfy your every need as long as you willed it, until the end of time if I must. Your father, and Trevor Philips, is a direct threat to that promise. I cannot run from you, nor face them, both options would cause nothing but despair for the both of us." Delicately, he clasped my throat, his fingers tracing the curve of my neck. The intimacy of his touch sent shivers down my spine. "Tell me, my love, how do we proceed from here?"

I bit my lip, my mind racing to formulate an acceptable answer to our complex dilemma. But I couldn't think of a solution. My life was a mess, and things were only getting worse.

What am I going to do?

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**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please, please, PLEASE leave a review, I really appreciate the honest feedback, and it would be nice to know if people are actually reading this! You guys are my inspiration, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! I got a update for you! :)**

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Smith and I returned home to Los Santos. I packed up my things, grabbed Emma, and left. My husband was a wanted fugitive, a bank robber with almost as much experience as my father under his belt. There was one thing I knew for sure—Dad, Frank and Trevor were entangled in the criminal underworld again and bad things were soon to follow. I couldn't afford to stick around waiting for disaster to come knocking at my door. I had a daughter to think about now. She needed love and protection. Due to my husband's selfishness and greed, my life and Emma's were in jeopardy. Our entire family was a target now.

As the light of day ebbed from the city's sky, so did the warmth. All that remained now was the bitter chill of dusk and the promise of a frigid night to come.

Lying on my side in the comfort of Smith's bed, my outstretched hand was on Emma's crib. I rocked her gently to sleep, my eyes sore, dry, and aching from shedding so many tears. My husband was god knows where, doing god knows what—a fugitive on the run—the life of safety and luxury I grew so well accustomed to seemed to slip through my fingers in a matter of seconds. What are we going to do? What was going to happen next? The uncertainty was agonizing, the stress overwhelming.

My mind ran a mile a minute with worst case scenarios. Sleeping was out of the question. Careful not to wake Emma, I left the bedroom and took the hallway to the living room. Occupied by multiple filing cabinets with a desk in the center, it was more of an office than a living space. I halted on the threshold, my gaze riveted to Smith's back as he stood before the windows and looked out at the cloudy city. My pulse skittered at the sight of him. He lingered, still as a statue, in a contemplative silence. His gaze was blank and expression grim, his attention seemed to be fixed somewhere deep inside himself. His crossed arms exposed an innate unease.

For some reason, he seemed to be out of his comfort zone even in the familiarity of his own apartment. He appeared isolated and distant. Brooding. He was a man who was intrinsically alone.

I cleared my throat for his attention, disrupting his solitude. He swiveled and then tensed, maybe from surprise due to my sudden appearance—I wasn't sure. I took the opportunity to drink in the sensuality of his physique hidden underneath that wildly expensive suit…he was enthralling. Powerful. His presence so compelling, I felt drawn to him as if some invisible force was slowly, infallibly pulling us together like a magnet.

The rakish fall of blonde around his face, the silky ringlet of hair dangling over his forehead…_Christ. _Did he have any idea how good he looked? My fingers ached with the urge to rip his shirt open and watch the buttons scatter along the floor. A shiver passed through me, followed by a hot ache between my legs at the thought of using his lean, beautifully built body for pleasure, to alleviate my stress and pain, if only for a little while…

I shook my head, willing away the sinful thoughts. Clearly he was hurting, depressed and suicidal, quietly fighting his own demons and all I could think about was fucking him. He wasn't an object for my enjoyment. Oliver was my best friend. It was my obligation to at least try and make him feel better. Now wasn't the time for selfishness.

"Haven't you spent enough time moping about?" I teased. "It's better to be miserable with company than deal with it alone, you know."

"Tracey." He gazed at me, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling. "You are awake."

"I couldn't sleep." I went over to him, threw my arms around his shoulders and hugged him. "Are you okay?"

He embraced me, strong and clinging with the intense pressure I've come to know and love, our bodies molded together. "Better, now that you are here," he planted a light kiss on my temple and looked into my eyes, his expression serious. "Tell me, do these walls not suit you? Do you feel cramped? How is Emma adjusting to the change of scenery? Is the bed uncomfortable? I am aware these living conditions can be rather dull for a lady and child of such stature. Are you peckish? Do you need me to fetch you something? If there is anything I can do to accommodate—"

"Shut up." I held a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You're not my bodyguard anymore. You're not my butler or my servant. Your apartment is good enough for both me and Emma. Relax. Everything is fine."

He shook his head and pulled away, leaning on the edge of his desk. "How sweet of you to stand there and coddle me, when we are both acutely aware that everything in your life has gone terribly wrong because of me." Head bowed; a heavy sigh escaped him. "I pleaded for your friendship, your partnership—dragged you into my investigations, and now you and I are so deeply intertwined…"

The rawness of his words squeezed my heart. I took his hand, the linking of our fingers comforted me as he continued speaking the painful truth. "I swear my intentions were pure. I did not mean to complicate your life, to cause a rift in your marriage. Despite my disdain for your husband, in all his terrible arrogance and consistent poor judgement, he is a good father," he spoke grudgingly. "Poor Emma, she deserves a strong, male role model in her life. I never had such a luxury."

"None of this crap is your fault," I argued. "If Franklin was such a good father, he wouldn't have left his wife and his daughter last night. He wouldn't have robbed an effing bank. Stop blaming yourself for other people's actions."

"Perhaps if you were with him last night, instead of tending to the sorry likes of me, your current predicament would be different."

"Not for the better," I countered sharply. "If I wasn't there to stop you from pulling the trigger…" My voice died away.

A thick silence loomed between us. Smith was the first to break it, "I must admit, I am ashamed you witnessed such a moment of weakness. It was a lapse in judgement."

I stared at him, teeth gnawing on the inside of my cheek. Who's to say he won't have a lapse in judgement again? And what if I'm not there to stop him? What if I lose him forever?

He cupped my cheek, scrutinizing my face closely. "You seem preoccupied. Share your thoughts."

"How can we fix you?" I asked. "Therapy? Pills? I don't want you to be sad anymore."

"Fix me?" His firm lips quirked with amusement. "It is not that simple, I am afraid."

"So what if it's not simple? Aren't you willing to try?"

"I have found my remedy, love. I ventured far and wide in search of it, from Britain to Liberty City, through the crime-ridden streets of Carcer to the heart of Los Santos." He stroked my cheek delicately, lovingly. "It took years and years, but finally, I found her. Here she is, standing before me in all her comely glory, just as stunning as I imagined, with a body and soul more beautiful than any man could ever dream of."

His eyes slid downward, staring with such passionate longing, I shivered with desire. The magnetism he emanated grew in intensity, becoming a near tangible force of unwavering power. In a meager attempt to resist, I stumbled back. He caught me with one arm, pinning my body to his.

"Look who is running now," he offered me a warm, captivating smile that sent my pulse racing.

Grinning mischievously, I replied, "Don't start something you can't finish."

"I would never," Smith chuckled. "Come now, join me for a cup of tea." He moved away, his body a tremendous force as he slipped past me. With a finger curled around mine, he escorted me to the kitchen. Merely following behind him was a huge exercise in self-control. I wanted to tear off his clothes and drag him to the nearest bed. His nearness alone made my senses spin, my core was hot, my entire being filled with a yearning too long denied.

But of course, he seemed to be completely oblivious to my desire. It was strange honestly. He was outrageously perceptive, gifted with an observant eye and the ability to sense things others couldn't. He knew I wanted him. I wasn't particularly good at hiding it. Maybe he was being a tease.

I hate being teased.

He retrieved two mugs from the cabinet and filled both our cups. Tea was the last thing on my mind, however. I was thirsty for something—_someone_ else entirely.

Smith leaned against the counter and sipped his drink casually. "I had planned to pay Otto a visit tonight. But now that you are here with the nipper…" He continued to speak but his voice faded to the back of my mind, my attention fixed on his lethally handsome face and the way his firm mouth moved with every word. I was dying to feel his lips against mine. Dying to see him naked, aching to be underneath him with those beautiful blue eyes staring into mine as he pounded into me, over and over until he's coming hard and deep inside me—

"Tracey?" Smith's voice raised a pitch, snapping me back to reality. "Did you hear a word I said, love?"

I took a long gulp of my tea before responding. "Yep. Totally. You were talking about the case, right?"

"Indeed. The night is young, I am going to Sandy Shores to make an arrest. Andre will be here momentarily; he will watch after you and the nipper while I am gone."

The moment he turned away, a ping of alarm erupted in my chest. I clung to his jacket, pulling him back. He cast his gaze downward, eyes focused on my fingers that clutched desperately to his fine tailored clothes. A sheepish smile pulled at his lips. "Tracey, sweetheart…" he said softly, patronizingly. "As much as I would love to remain here with you, I must work. And you have responsibilities of your own to attend to."

"Whatever." Heat stealing into my face, I withdrew. Weary and embarrassed, I sank into the nearest chair with my wounded pride. A fury buried deep down within me had begun to rear its ugly head. Of course he was going to leave. He must be tired of me. He must think I'm desperate, needy, nothing but a burden. I'll show him. "Why are you still here?" I asked, waving him away. "Go. Leave like everyone else does. I don't care anymore."

He knelt before me, his eyes leveled with mine. "Tracey, you are not yourself—"

"_No shit!"_ I blurted, swatting my cup of tea aside in a rageful tantrum. The mug hit the linoleum floor, shattering to pieces. "My husband left me! He's a fucking fugitive! So yeah, I'm not my fucking self, what the hell did you expect?" I sighed, trying to calm my trembling muscles. "News flash, you're not the only one who's hurting."

He winced, glancing at the tea and shards of ceramic on the floor. "What a waste of good tea."

I rolled my eyes. "Screw your tea."

"I did not hurt you. Do not take that pain out on me. There are better ways to cope."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Voicing your feelings calmly is an option—"

"I'm tired of talking." I rose and faced him, standing on the tip of my toes, I nuzzled his nose, my lips brushed over his. "Kiss me. Make love to me. Fuck me. _Do something_."

"Sex with you?" Words that were meant to be intimate and sacred rolled off his tongue so casually, my stomach clenched. "What convenient timing for such a proposal. I am your rebound now, how delightful." His tone was rich with cruel sarcasm. His gaze intensified into a glare, eyes ruthless and remote, and I felt him take an emotional step back. He was unlike himself, hard and defensive as if I was suddenly his enemy.

"Tell me, do you seek to sleep with me solely for vengeance?" he continued. "Does your guilty conscience burden you no longer now that he is gone? When your ball and chain returns, and he always does, will you still be eager to use me? Or am I currently a toy to be played with for a time and then tossed away?"

A dry sob burned my throat, but I'd be damned if I let it out. I was done crying. Instead, I shoved him away bitterly. "I thought you cared about me. All those sweet lies and false promises…I shoulda known you were full of shit like everyone else stupid effing city. _I hate you_."

We glared at one another with open resentment and hostility. It was terrifying how quickly our adoration for each other could turn into spite. He had the power to crush my heart, and then put the pieces back together whenever he saw fit. In that moment, my feelings for him became blatantly clear.

I'm in love with Oliver Smith. The type of man my family stressed time and time again to stay far away from—a federal agent.

To be fair, I've never been good at doing what I was told.

I dug through my purse and yanked out one of Franklin's long forgotten cigars I had been holding for him. Fully aware of how badly Smith hated tobacco, I lit it on the stovetop and began puffing away. The taste was harsh and gross, but totally worth it. His jaw twitched, his cool composure slowly tearing at the seams.

"What is it with you and sex?" I asked. "Whenever I mention it, you either get defensive or freeze up like a deer in headlights. How long has it been since you got laid? Months? Years? Did you forget how to use your dick or are you gay and just stringing me along like an asshole?"

"Your childish attempts to bruise my ego will get you nowhere," he muttered. "Calm yourself, remove that dreadful cigar from between your lips and then we may speak again."

"No," I responded with easy defiance, tapping the ashes on the floor. "I can smoke if I want to."

"You mustn't pollute your lungs, or Emma's with such filth." He advanced, holding his palm out to me. "Give it to me. Now."

"Or what—"

With those annoyingly fast reflexes of his, he snatched the cigar from my hand and smashed it out within the sink, crumbling the tobacco to bits within his fist. His face was flushed red and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He was so pissed.

"Nice," I said, watching him wash the remnants of the cigar down the drain. "You must be so pleased with yourself."

"I am delighted." He managed a bleak, tight-lipped smile. "If you are going to kill yourself, at least do it with some dignity."

I scoffed. _And peopl_e _claim I'm dramatic._

"Lover's quarrel?" I jerked at the sound of Cadillac's deep voice. Arms crossed over his barrel-like chest, he leaned against the kitchen doorway. Despite all the muscle, he was a lot less intimidating than usual in a pair of camouflage jeans and a white, short sleeve shirt. For the first time ever, he looked relatively normal in his casual attire, except for the shiny police badge dangling from his neck.

Smith's tense posture loosened at the sight of his friend. "Greetings, Andre."

"What's good, Olly."

"How long have you been there?" I asked.

"Long enough to hear you guys fighting over smoke, calling each other names with some dick insults sprinkled in between—the dick insults were the best part, no offense, Olly." Cadillac pat his friend's shoulder roughly. "Oh, by the way, there's some hot chick at the door claiming to be your mom, Tracey."

Blood pounded in my temples as I absorbed the news. "What?"

"I didn't let her in because, well, I figured now was a really bad time. You know, with you guys going at each other's throats and all."

"How did she look?"

"Big tits, brown hair, yoga pants, lots of makeup…"

Oh my god. That must be Mom! How did she find me? I hurried to the front door and gazed through the peephole. She was outside, arms stretched high in prayer position as she tried to perfect her tree pose. _Ugh_. Mom was such a weirdo sometimes. Just as I began to open the door, Smith appeared at my side, slamming it closed.

Before I could mutter a word, he dipped me back, his mouth swooped down to capture mine. Dazed, I held onto him, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. It was a deep, passionate kiss, the hot, soul-reaching massage of our lips melted away every bit of sourness within me. The spontaneity of his open affection, in front of his best friend no less, renewed my arousal for him. Giddy from the pleasure of his touch I've been lusting after for so long, a pleased murmur escaped me.

As I swooned, head over heels in the strong, loving arms of my trusted partner, I was faintly aware of Mom shouting from behind the door, "Tracey! I know you're in there!"

When Smith straightened me, I drew a sharp breath, light-headed. He clasped my chin, gently tilting my head sideways to whisper in my ear. "I will not leave you," he declared quietly, but with earnest resolve. "I will stay, but your mother mustn't discover my presence. Her and I are not on good terms—"

"I know," I mumbled. The last thing I needed was Mom coming face to face with the guy who shot her husband. I had enough drama in my life already. "Go, hide. I'll handle Mom."

"I will tend to Emma." His heat left me. I pat down my wrinkled sweater, combed my fingers through my hair and uttered a silent prayer that I appeared somewhat presentable once I opened the door.

"Tracey!" Mom hugged me. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mom." I returned the hug. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"After the whole Madrazo fiasco, I hired a friend of mine to install a tracking device in your phone—"

"What?" My nose wrinkled in protest. "Seriously, Mom? That's a total invasion of privacy!"

"I'm sorry, honey, but I had to. It was for your own good, you have a habit of disappearing. Have you seen your father?"

I swallowed deep. "No. Have you?"

Mom hesitated, her gaze shifted from me and swept over our surroundings. "Where's Franklin? Who's apartment is this?"

"Mine," Cadillac slipped in front of her, extending his hand politely. "Detective Andre Jackson. And you are?"

She froze for a moment before shaking his hand, her eyes roamed over his figure. "I'm Amanda, Tracey's mother." She leaned in, peering into his face as if studying a painting in a museum. "You're a cop? You know my daughter is married, right?"

Somehow, he didn't flinch beneath Mom's intense scrutiny. "Yeah. We're just friends."

Mom's eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

"We take classes together at the university," I lied, hoping to ease her suspicion. "He's an aspiring actor—"

"Rapper," Cadillac corrected. "I spit bars, make beats, that sort of thing. Tracey is my mentor, you have no idea how amazing of an opportunity it is to work with, like, a real celebrity. Your daughter is phenomenal, an icon. I'm feeling blessed, real blessed." He folded his hands together in a prayer. "So damn blessed."

Mom replied, "Tracey doesn't know anything about music. How could she be your mentor?"

"Uh…" Unable to come up with an answer, Cadillac shot a nervous glance at me.

Thankfully, I had the perfect, most believable response. "I've been teaching him how to dance."

Mom tipped her head back and laughed. "Really? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," Cadillac said. "Your daughter has taught me all kinds of shit, even the waltz. Wanna see?" Before Mom could protest, he took her hand, settled the other on the small of her back and twirled her around playfully. She shuddered, tense, but then gave a taut grin, skipping about on the tip of her toes to follow along with his balletic movements. For a short moment, their bodies swayed in unison to and fro without the aid of music. Apparently, everyone in the room knew how to ballroom dance except for me, the _actual_ professional dancer.

They stopped, and hugged, laughing together, Mom was literally in tears. "God, I haven't danced like that in years," she mused, averting her gaze from him shyly. "My husband isn't much of a dancer. He hates it."

A smile ruffled Cadillac's mouth. "Doing a lil' jig every now and then is good for you."

Something about him must have really turned Mom on. She thrust her hand into his tapered afro, her fingers sliding over the shaved side of his head. "I've been a bad girl," she said, licking her lips suggestively, her thigh rubbing his. "What are you gonna do about it, Mr. Policeman? Put me in cuffs? Spank me? Whip me?"

"Damn, girl, you freaky," Cadillac smirked. "Who you married to, and when y'all getting a divorce?"

My stomach knotted. _Gross_. "Mom!" I grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the nearest corner. "Stop flirting with my friend, it's embarrassing!"

"Can you blame me? He's cute," she argued. "A little harmless flirting never hurt anyone."

"Harmless? Mom, really? You asked him to whip you."

She crossed her arms defensively. "So? Everyone does that nowadays."

"No, they don't," I sighed. "What's going on between you and Dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"You always get like this when you and Dad are fighting. Tell me what he did."

Her expression grew serious. "He left in the middle of the night yesterday without a word, that asshole. He won't return my calls, honey. I'm worried." She pressed a hand to her forehead, her brow creased with worry. "Do you think he's in trouble?"

"Relax, Mom." I rubbed her shoulders soothingly. "Wherever Dad is, I'm sure he's okay."

She shook her head, hands trembling. "No, he's not. I have this feeling in my gut, sweetheart. Call it intuition, or a sixth sense, I don't know—something doesn't feel right. If he was okay, he would've called by now. I know my husband." She clutched my arm. "Where's Emma? Is she safe?"

"She's fine. I have her—"

"Where?" She veered, crossing the living room in two strides and venturing into the hall. She was heading straight for the bedroom.

_Crap!_ _Smith is in there! _"Wait!" I lunged in front of the bedroom door, halting her advance. "Emma is sleeping. You don't wanna wake her, do you?"

Mom's narrowed, determined glare drilled into me. "I'm going to check on my granddaughter. Get out of my way, Tracey," she ordered.

A flicker of apprehension coursed through me. Mom's nostrils flared; she was going to kill me if I didn't move. Knowing better than to challenge her authority, especially when she was on edge like this, I reluctantly stepped aside. Cadillac stared at us from the living room, head clasped in his hands, teeth bared with helpless concern. His anxiety fed off mine, intensifying it, giving me the jitters.

I was literally shivering. It was too much!

_Crap. Crap. Crap. Mom is gonna freak!_

She turned the knob and pushed open the door. A gust of wind hit us. Emma was in her crib, and thankfully, Smith was nowhere to be found. The window was wide open, the sheer curtains billowed in the breeze. I sagged against the wall. _Whew._ "Aw, look at my grandbaby," Mom swept Emma into her arms and rocked her. "Grandma missed you so much."

Cadillac took Mom's side. "Hey, you hungry?" he asked. "We should all go out and get some food."

"It's a chilly night, I rather stay inside." Mom glanced at me. "Tracey, sweetie, do you want a bite to eat?"

"I'm starving," I blurted.

"Andre, you wouldn't mind if I made dinner, would you?" Mom asked.

He shook his head. "Not at all, as long as you don't forget about me. I'm hungry too."

"Aw, how could I forget about you?" she gushed, squeezing his stubbled cheek. "You're so adorable."

"Noooo," Cadillac stretched the vowels, flustered, his face split into an embarrassed grin as Mom continued pinching him. "Stooop—"

_Ugh. I'm totally gonna barf. _"Okay, that's enough. Mom, go cook." I took Emma from her arms and ushered her out the door, closing it behind her.

Once Mom was gone, Smith appeared on the outer ledge of the window. He vaulted into the room with grace. My heart skipped. Setting my sleepy baby back in her crib, I ran into his arms, clinging to him. "Jeez, how long were you out there?"

"Too long," he chuckled. "Luckily for us, I do not fear heights."

"You're amazing." I glanced at the closet. "You coulda hid in there, you know."

"Too many skeletons in there, he wouldn't fit," Cadillac joked.

Smith's attention shifted to his friend. "Quite the impression you put on Amanda. She's absolutely smitten with you."

"I'm good with moms," Cadillac replied. "It's a gift. They all love me."

"It's not a gift," I grumbled. "It's gross and super inappropriate—"

"Tracey!" Mom called from the kitchen.

Smith cupped my chin and tipped up my head, our eyes locked. "Your mother requires your attention. Tend to her, she needs you. I will return later, there is something I must do."

"Are you going to deal with Otto?" I asked.

"No. I am going to find your father. Whatever predicament he has gotten himself into, I am going to absolve him from it."

* * *

**Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Leave a review, let me know what you think! Love you for reading, see you next week!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys, I got a new update for you, this one is in Agent Smith's POV, enjoy!**

* * *

**Oliver**

If there was anyone who knew the whereabouts of Michael De Santa, it was Dave Norton. His private office was located on the top floor of our headquarters. A young, long-limbed secretary with an obnoxiously short pencil skirt greeted me soon as I stepped out of the elevator.

Energetically, she rose from behind her desk at the sight of me and extended her hand. "Hi! You're Agent Oliver Smith, right?"

I stiffened. Goodness, she knew my name but for the life of me, I could not recall hers. Her slick bun of fiery red, so tightly wrapped it pulled at her sparse hairline, seemed somewhat familiar. Instead of engaging in any physical contact, I acknowledged her with a brief nod. "We've met?"

She withdrew her hand somewhat awkwardly, a sheepish smile pulled at her red rouged lips. "Um, not formally, but I've seen you around the building enough and it's about time we got acquainted, I think. You've done the world a great service getting rid of Martin Madrazo. Countless lives were saved due to your bravery. On the behalf of every citizen in Los Santos, thank you. You're a hero."

_Meh, flattery…how tiresome._ I glanced over her shoulder. The door to Norton's office was just at the end of the hall. My gaze averted to the clock. 9:00 A.M. It's late. He should be leaving soon, if he has not already. Although I had more pressing matters to attend to than idle chatter, I could not bring myself to be rude. "Please, save your gratitude. I was simply doing my job."

She smiled, "The other agents here could learn a thing or two from you."

"Seems your reputation precedes itself, Smith," Norton appeared, slipping past us with a briefcase in hand. "I'm heading home. Have a good night, you two."

I swerved in front of him. "A word?"

He shook his head and entered the elevator, tapping on the main lobby button. I took his side. "No time for words," he spoke in a detached, official manner. "I'm off the clock. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow—"

"It cannot, I am afraid." The aluminum doors closed, and the elevator began its descent. "You owe me a favor."

"I do?" He snorted. "I thought your altruistic actions today were done out of the kindness of your heart. Was I wrong?"

"Oh, of course not. You required aid and I was more than happy to oblige. I may be inclined to do so again if the need arises, provided you give me the information I seek…"

"Is that right?" Norton eyed me with a critical squint. "Are you a man of your word, Smith?"

I nodded. "I am a beacon of integrity and benevolence both."

"Confident. I like that. What do you want to know?"

"Where is Michael De Santa?"

"Indisposed," he answered without a shred of remorse.

I winced. _Oh dear…_

Norton chuckled at the sight of my stricken expression. "Judging by the look on your face right now, I'm guessing this is an inconvenience for you?"

I composed myself, quickly suppressing my worry under an appearance of indifference. I straightened my tie. "I need him alive."

"Michael has too many enemies, burned too many bridges. Keeping him alive is more trouble than it's worth. Besides, with him in the ground, the world is a much safer place."

Norton had a point. Michael De Santa was a narcissistic sociopath—a brutal murderer and thief, cruel and calculating. Death would be a suiting punishment for his crimes. _Goodness, what am I thinking? Focus! I am here to aid Michael, not condemn him_. "With all due respect, I must disagree," I said. "He is an invaluable ally, don't you agree? He has helped you and this agency many times in the past. His death would be a great loss to us."

The elevator doors opened. We stepped out. He strolled down the lobby toward the exit. I followed him.

"I don't owe Michael anything," said Norton, nodding a polite good-bye to a nearby janitor. "The deep shit he keeps getting himself into—all his fault. I'm tired of cleaning up the mess. I don't get paid enough, Smith. And neither do you."

I replied, "I did not become a federal agent for the salary."

"I am well aware." His stride came to a halt. He turned to face me. "You're a smart kid, you have a good head on your shoulders. You've done great work; our agency is lucky to have you. But there's just one thing about you, Smith, that I can't seem to wrap my head around."

"If you have questions or concerns, you are more than welcome to voice them."

"What the hell do you see in the blonde?"

I stiffened. "Pardon me?"

"You can cut the bullshit," he said curtly, the courteous air of professionalism between us effectively broken. "I know the real reason you're here. You want to help one of the most dangerous felons in all of Los Santos because he happens to be your girlfriend's father. Am I right?"

Well, he was not wrong. Still, I went rigid at the accusation. How could he see through me so easily?

His hard, accusing eyes softened. "Relax, I get it. I was young once too. We all do stupid things when we're in love. If you're serious about saving Michael's ass, you can try your luck at the Strawberry funeral home on Davis Avenue. Good luck, he's your problem now."

Humbled and abashed by both his perceptiveness and empathy, I muttered, "Your aid is greatly appreciated. I am in your debt."

"A word of advice—the De Santas are nothing but trouble," he warned with bitter cynicism. "They're going to get you killed. It might not be today or tomorrow, but everyone that family is associated with tend to turn up dead. Would be a shame to lose one of the best agents this city has to offer over nonsense. Tread carefully, Smith."

* * *

Norton's warning lingered in my mind the entire drive from the bureau to Strawberry. I knew the risks of associating myself with an infamous criminal family like the De Santas. In the beginning, my effort to form a close relationship with Tracey was for the sole purpose of pursuing Madrazo. At some point through the nutty adventure of continuously defending her, coddling her, comforting her whenever that brute she considered a lover made her cry—I developed a tenderness for her. Emotions I conditioned myself not to feel, I felt for her. To my disdain, a married woman had me wrapped around her finger…

Dark, suspicious characters clad in purple patrolled the exterior of the funeral home; silver pistols gleamed in the palm of their hands. They were guarding something. Or someone. A sense of foreboding washed over me.

Nothing pleasant awaited me here. I shrugged out of my jacket, unfastened my cuff links and rolled up my sleeves. Then, I drew on my gloves, and double checked the pair of handguns secured within my leather shoulder holsters. I retrieved my switchblade and flashlight from the glove compartment. Best be prepared for the worst. Better safe than sorry.

The wind was high, and the gloomy shade of the night deepened as the moon hid behind a bank of clouds. The streets were vacant, apart from the occasional car speeding by. With the excessive amount of gang activity in the area, decent folk knew better than to be outside at such an hour. Using the lack of visibility to my advantage, I kept low to the surrounding shrubbery outside the home. Through a gap in the hedge, I witnessed three men with a motionless body in tow. There was blood. A lot of it.

Whoever the victim was, they were certainly dead. Straining my eyes on the corpse, the broken and beaten body resembled a woman, her shrubs drenched in crimson, apron and surgical mask were ripped into ribbons—an obvious sign of a struggle. Her metal name tag glistened beneath the streetlights. Did she work here? Was she the embalmer?

As if she were nothing more than a piece of rubbish, the men threw her body in a nearby dumpster. And then they laughed, an evil, barbaric sound of mirth as they dusted off their hands in a gesture of a job well done.

I gritted my teeth, a hot, implacable hatred sizzled my brain, burning its way into my heart and mind. They were guilty, all of them long overdue for the harshest of punishment. Little did they know, she will be avenged. Death was near. I have arrived. There would be no mercy—

"Olly?" Andre's voice seeped from my earpiece. _Now is not a good time._

"I am preoccupied," I murmured, quiet enough not to alert my prey.

"How long are you gonna be busy? You left me here to babysit your girlfriend and her mom."

I extended my switchblade. "Are you not entertained?"

"I guess I am. Amanda is real nice to look at."

"Goodness, that woman is old enough to be your mother." I performed a swift headcount of the savages. Five in total, perhaps there were more inside.

Ignoring my comment, he said, "Were you ever gonna tell me about you and Tracey? We keeping secrets from each other now?"

"It's complicated."

"You've been acting different lately, Olly. Why'd your sister show up at the bureau today?" I did not respond. This was neither the place nor time to discuss private affairs. My mate, presumptuous and cheeky, always pushing boundaries, blundered on, "Was it about Amelia?"

My chest tightened, sour emotion tying painful knots in my gut. I snatched out my earpiece, crushed it to bits inside my clenched fist and disposed of the remnants within the bushes. Her dreadful name was the very last thing I wanted to hear. If I never heard it again, it'd be too bloody soon.

Now I can concentrate on the task at hand…

One of the fools patrolling the area made the fatal error of wandering in proximity of the hedge I crouched behind. Oh, how he made for such an easy target! Once his back faced me, I lunged from cover, smothered a hand over his mouth and sunk my blade into the depths of his kidneys. Holding him tightly in place, he whimpered and struggled briefly before the cold embrace of death took him. It was a quiet kill. I hid his body in the bushes and his associates were none the wiser. They would all get their turn in due time.

The next target took some effort. A criminal stood guard at the front door with an AK-47. I left the concealment of the hedges and made a slow, careful advance toward him. Hugging the building's exterior, I stopped at the corner. He was only a short distance away now, but too far to guarantee a quick, silent kill. His firearm complicated things. I need him to come closer…

I had an idea. A rather feeble-minded one, but well worth the risk provided the target was foolish enough to take the bait. I kicked a nearby rock for his attention. The pebble twirled into his line of sight.

"What was that?" he asked aloud. "Is that you, Johnny? Trying to prank me again, huh?"

I stilled, locking the breath in my lungs, my knife held close to my chest. _Who on earth was Johnny? _

He approached, each cautious step a heavy _thump_ over the cobblestone pavement.

I waited.

And waited.

Finally, he turned the corner. In one quick motion, I sliced his throat, tearing him open in a fountain of red. Choking, he staggered back. For a moment I watched the blood spill, admiring my work as he crumbled into fetal position. Two down, three more to go.

My focus switched to his weapon. Useless in the hands of a buffoon, but it may prove useful in mine. I relieved him of his possession.

With the entrance of the funeral home no longer blocked, I was tempted to search inside. But to leave abruptly, without properly introducing myself to the fine gentlemen who lingered by the dumpsters…oh, that'd be so rude of me, and I have always taken great pride in my good manners.

I circled around back, only to find the three men had gained new friends. It had to be at least a dozen hoodlums, happily wallowing in filth together, unbothered by the stench of death and rot wafting from the trash. The lot of them blackened their tar-infested lungs with repulsive cigarette smoke, as they engaged in some ridiculous, boisterous conversation about narcotics. One happened to notice the firearm in my hands, his body jerked, and then he reached for his revolver. But it was too late.

I rose the AK and let the lead fly. The distinctive sound of fully automatic death pierced the air. A dozen bodies folded over on the concrete. It was gruesome and bloody, perhaps a bit extreme for my taste, but the outcome was _lovely_. In a matter of seconds, the humble neighborhood of Strawberry was _that_ much of a greater, pleasant place. All it took was a single man, some initiative, and a thirty-round assault rifle. Due to the onslaught, consequently I was all out of ammunition. I tossed the weapon aside and obtained my switchblade once again.

The amount of noise the gunfire made was certain to attract unwanted attention. I had to be quick. I backtracked to the front door. Advancing along the cobblestone path, a rather scrawny looking fellow flung himself through the heavy double doors. As soon as I saw his gun, I hurled my knife at him. The honed steel punctured his chest. He dropped to his knees, wailing from the pain as he attempted—and failed—to dislodge the blade from his sternum.

He cried bloody murder, and for goodness sake, the awful sound was grating on the ears. I sank to his level and slapped my gloved hand over his mouth to muffle his aggravating screams. "_Silence. Hush now_."

His raw, high-pitched screeching dwindled to tight whimpers. Much better.

"May I ask you a question?"

He indicated by a taut motion of his shiny bald head that he was listening.

"Is Michael De Santa here?"

For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, finally, he nodded reluctantly.

I lowered my hand. "Where?"

"Inside," he choked out, wheezing, nursing his wound. "Down…downstairs…"

"You would not lie to me, would you?"

His head swung in a slow, side-to-side motion. I put the poor bastard out of his misery with a shot between the eyes and retrieved my blade before leaving. Apparently, I am merciful after all.

The silvery beam of surrounding streetlights streamed through the stained-glass windows, brightening the path ahead. Adjacent to the satin-lined casket was an open door. Beyond was utter blackness. There were much scarier things in life than the dark, however. I pointed my flashlight into the abyss, revealing a concrete staircase to a basement of some sort, and forged onward.

The foul stench of chemicals burned my nose, growing more and more oppressive the deeper I descended. An icy chill penetrated my bones. Shadows pressed in all around me like a heavy weight, stiffening the knees. I did not turn back. I lingered in the narrow passage, and by dint of groping, found a light switch.

At the bottom of the steps was an immense room of the blandest white. The walls were bare, the air arid, and the odor—_bloody hell,_ it was dreadful. Beside the numerous scalpels and aneurysm hooks was a stainless-steel operating table. On top was a body, stagnant, concealed by a thin sheet.

I assumed it was the shell of some poor soul awaiting embalmment. Until I noticed the cut zip ties on the polished concrete floor. _Strange. _Cautiously, gun raised, I pulled back the sheet to inspect the corpse. The body jerked to life. In an instant, there was a scalpel at my throat. A keen, steely blue glare bore into mine with murderous intent, silently daring me to move. I did not.

It was Michael De Santa. There was no mistaking his tough, weathered face, firm-jawed and forever scowling, forehead furrowed by a complex set of horizontal lines. The noisy blare of sirens found my ear. _Shit._ The police would be here any minute now…

"You thought you could kill me, huh motherfucker?" He pressed the razor-sharp edge of the scalpel deeper into my skin, drawing blood. Heat boiled my insides, my grip on my gun tightened. I blew out a breath.

_Remain calm. Defuse the situation. _

"Drop the gun or I'll slit your goddamn throat," he threatened.

The stinging sensation was unpleasant but tolerable. "I am not your enemy," I attempted to assure him. "I am here to aid you."

"Bullshit," Michael admonished. "You and your friends kidnapped me, fuckin' prick. Wait a minute…" He scrutinized my face, his brows shot up. "You're that fuckin' fed, Davey's lapdog—the piece of shit that shot me and tried to hand my daughter over to Madrazo!"

My gaze dropped to the floor; my heartbeat unruly. "Yes, I have put your family through a great deal of pain. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but if you could at least lend me your ear, I can help you understand—"

"Fuck you. You shoulda made sure I was dead, asshole. Now I'm gonna do what you did to me, except worse—"

"Freeze!" My eyes snapped in the direction of the voice. A police officer held us at gunpoint a few feet away, hands shaking, his sweaty face plump with baby fat. Undoubtedly a rookie. A child straight out of the academy. His gaze shifted between us anxiously for a moment. Then, his focus settled solely on the infamous fugitive holding the sharp instrument at my throat. "It's you! Michael De S-Santa! Put t-the wea-weapon down, you-you're under arrest!"

It was very much against my morals to harm officers of the law. Especially one so naïve and unknowingly foolhardy. However, I saw no alternative. Swiftly, I took aim at his leg and pulled the trigger. Hot lead struck his kneecap. He wobbled and dropped like a sack of bricks, grasping helplessly at his knee, pleading to his god for mercy. Very dramatic. Footsteps stomped on the floorboards overhead.

Michael, stricken with disbelief, spoke over the officer's tormented pleas. "Whoa. You shot a cop. For me."

"There will be more," I offered him my spare Glock. "Either we work together, or we die together. It is your choice."

"I've tolerated scumbags worse than you, pal." He lowered the scalpel from my neck, took my gun, and rose to his feet. "Let's do this."

We ascended the stairs and were greeted by a swarm of law enforcement. They immediately opened fire. We dived behind the handsomely trimmed casket. The metal box was good for more than the containment of the dead, it was efficient at deflecting bullets as well. Projectiles soared through the air, seemingly in every direction, but each missed their mark. The LSPD was a sloppy and incompetent lot. With Michael and I's combined effort, killing them was somewhat of a breeze. However, their numbers were endless, and our ammunition was limited.

"We gotta get the fuck outta here!" Michael shouted.

I stopped shooting and scanned the area for an escape route. There was a door directly across from us. No clue where it led but our demise was inevitable if we remained here.

With a tip of my chin, I indicated the door. "There, an exit perhaps!" I yelled over the explosive commotion. "Go for it, I will cover you!"

"You first!" he snapped defiantly.

"Fine then! Cover me instead!" I sprung forward despite the blazing chaos. Hostile rounds chipped the hardwood floors and dented the walls. I charged through the door. The night air found me; the vast openness of the outside world brimmed with opportunity. Freedom at last. Our fate was not quite sealed yet. There was hope.

I fled, vaulted over the hedges with Michael at my heels. I veered into the nearest seedy alleyway, hoping the dark would serve as a beacon of safety from our pursuers. A tiny stream of light trickled along the uneven ground, illuminating the nearby bums and guiding our steps.

Halfway through the cold, narrow path, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned, and my very own gun leaped into view. Aimed at me. There was a blinding flash, and a great deal of suffering followed—an awful tearing in my stomach that ached so fiercely, I could scarcely breathe. I stumbled, my back hit the brick wall.

"Now we're even," Michael said, his shadowy figure loomed over me as I slid to the ground. His hard, calloused knuckles struck my face, the coppery taste of blood pooled in my mouth. "And that one was for my daughter, you fuck."

The barrel was pointed at my head now. I laughed bitterly, pain sweeping through me. _Oh, the irony!_ For so long I thought my death would be caused by my own hand. And in a way, it was. I misplaced my trust…

Retaliation crossed my mind, but how could I live with such guilt? How could I look my love in her eyes—in all her goodness and sweet purity—and confess I have done exactly what I vowed _not _to do?

_No. No. _I mustn't hurt her loved ones, not again. It will all be over soon. I leaned my head against the brick, a blur of lights dancing in my eyes. I am ready.

He pinched the trigger.

But stopped short at the wail of sirens in the distance. He bolted with reckless abandon, leaving me to slowly wither away among the homeless, diseased rodents, and decaying waste.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! What did you think of the chapter? Did you guys enjoy the POV swap? Leave a review, your feedback and support is greatly appreciated! Love you! :D**


	10. Chapter 10

**I got an update for you! We're back in our girl's Tracey POV, enjoy!**

* * *

**Tracey**

I stayed up all night waiting for Smith to walk through the door. Time passed by in a blur, the brightest morning of autumn shone over the city and he _still _hasn't returned. I paced the empty halls of his apartment, cradling Emma in one arm, my free hand holding my cellphone firmly to my ear. "What the hell do you mean, 'no one's seen him'?" I shouted into the receiver, my entire body vibrating. "Someone had to have seen something!"

"If someone did, they're keeping it on the low," Cadillac replied. "Listen, I'm gonna find Olly, alright? Just calm down, and let me handle it—"

"_No!" _I blurted defiantly. "Let's meet up and find him together. Where are you?" There was complete silence on the other end of the line."Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. I hear you." He sighed and gave into my insistence. "I'm at the police station, hon. Get here."

I hung up. Just as I finished strapping Emma into her stroller, the phone in the kitchen rang. I grabbed the handset off the wall like I owned the place. "Hello?"

"To whom am I speaking?" It was Smith's sister. I could recognize that accent and tone anywhere, British, with a touch of irritability and snob all rolled into one.

"Tracey De Santa—"

"Ah, I remember you. You're that miserable vixen masquerading as my brother's partner. What are you doing in his apartment? Let me guess…seduced him already, have you? Are you two sleeping together? Thinking about starting a future with him? A family? _Ha!_ Relationships and commitments are not Oliver's strong suit. He is flighty, a coward in every sense of the word. He left his family and he will leave you just the same."

I flinched, taken aback by her blatant disrespect. "Excuse me?"

She let out a scornful, wicked laugh. "Heed my words, whore. My brother is broken and it's only a matter of time before he breaks you, too. A pretty little thing like you does not stand a chance."

_Who the effing hell does this bitch think she is? _"Fuck you. You don't know me. What the fuck do you even want?"

"I called to speak to Oliver, you twit."

"He's not here, bitch. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Indeed, there is. I need you to relay a message to my pathetic excuse of a brother. Tell him his father is dead. Poor bloke spent his final days mulling over his mistakes. He was an old, tortured soul who wanted nothing but forgiveness from his bloody bastard of a son. Oliver and his petty grudges, it'll be the death of him one day, I swear it."

My stomach dropped. _Jeez._ "Fine. I'll let him know."

_Click. _The line went dead.

* * *

The large waiting area of the police station was packed with the restless, tear-streaked faces of desperate citizens filing police reports, as well as family members and loved ones of the suspects behind bars. Officers shuffled about in a rush, rudely pushing aside anyone who dared stand in their way. The polished floors were strewn with discarded paperwork, heated arguments raged within the interview rooms, fists pounded against the concrete walls of the holding cells. This place was absolute chaos in comparison to the bureau. I just arrived and I was already dying to leave.

"Let go of me, you bastards! I know my rights!" An oddly familiar voice pierced the unruliness brewing around me. I turned around and caught a glimpse of Mom being dragged into an interrogation room by two disgruntled policemen.

_Oh my god. _

Emma started wailing, seeming to recognize her grandma with a violent sense of shock. My heartbeat sped up, nearly bursting from my chest. "Mom!" Holding my baby close in my arms, I set off after Mom, crossed the huge waiting room and darted past the main desk before a fat, pudgy hand latched onto my arm, impeding my advance.

"This area is off limits to civilians, lady," a pot-bellied officer scolded me. "Leave, or else I'll be forced to escort you off the premises."

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped short once a stout, strapping figure took my side. Apprehensively, I glanced upward. Cadillac stood before me. He looked more formal than ever in a navy-blue dress shirt, and black slacks with a dark tie to match. He glared at the pudgy officer restraining me in direct challenge. "She's with me. Let her go."

The pudgy officer released me, his face reddened harshly beneath Cadillac's hostile scrutiny. "O-oh, sorry about that, Detective. I didn't know she was with you—"

Cadillac glowered. "Don't you got better things to do than harass civilians?"

Lowering his head in shame, the pudgy officer waddled away. _Serves him right. _

I took a moment to quiet down Emma, rocking her soothingly. Then, I shot a finger at the interrogation room. "My mom is in there, Cadillac—"

"Andre," he corrected. "And what about your mom?"

Men and women in uniform glided past us. Careful not to alarm any eavesdroppers, I stood on the tip of my toes to whisper in his ear. "I saw your stupid police friends take her in for questioning. Whatever they think she did, she's innocent. You have to do something. _Please._"

He leaned close and murmured, "No offense, but you and your criminal family are not my responsibility. I like you, hon, and your mom is the sweetest, but I can't lose this job. I worked too damn hard to get here."

As much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. Mom and I weren't his responsibility, and I'd feel terrible if he lost his job over us. That didn't stop me from pressing the issue though. "If not for me, do it for Olly. If he were here, he'd help and you know it."

He straightened, sighing loudly. "Fine. You win. But I'm not doing this for you. And I'm definitely not doing this for Olly." Cadillac turned for the interrogation room with a quick snap of his broad shoulders. _Yes!_ I hurried alongside him. He opened the door, and the pair of officers inside snapped their heads in our direction. "You two, get out here. We need to talk."

"But Detective, we're in the middle of something here!" one of the officers contested. "We only have a few questions for Mrs. De Santa, then she'll be placed back in her holding cell and we can all get on with our day."

"Guys, come on, it'll only be a sec'," Cadillac attempted to reason with them. "Get the fuck out here already. Don't waste my time and I won't waste yours."

Displeased, the two cops rose, muttering curses under their breath as they joined Cadillac outside. I quietly slipped past them, and found Mom sitting at a table with her hands cuffed behind her back. She gave a soft gasp, her mouth gaping in disbelief. "Tracey? Honey, how did you find me? They took my phone, they won't let me make any calls." She spoke in a breathy rush. "Have you heard from your father?"

"Stop worrying about Dad," I said. "Right now, you need to focus on yourself. What happened?"

"I was out doing some early morning shopping, minding my own business, not bothering anybody, when some piece of shit cops came out of nowhere and arrested me. I'm going to sue those fuckers to hell! I did nothing wrong!"

"Really, Mom?" I narrowed my eyes at her. "You swear you did nothing illegal?"

Struggling against her cuffs, she gritted her teeth audibly, then blew out a breath. "I might've taken some jewelry from Vangelico's without paying," she muttered. "But it was all cheap stuff, counterfeit I bet. No big deal—"

"It's a big effing deal, Mom." I ran my fingers through her sweaty, disheveled hair in an effort to tame it. "You can't keep doing stuff like this. It's wrong. You're a klepto, you need therapy like yesterday."

"We had a family shrink but your father got rid of him. He'd rather be a miserable psychopath than seek help. It's a pride thing, I think. That, and the shrink was practically bankrupting us."

Cadillac strolled into the room and pressed a button on the table, turning off the cameras. He flashed a smile at Mom, and gently helped her to her feet. "Mandy, you're free to go." He unlocked her handcuffs.

"Free?" She gaped at him, rubbing at her bruised wrists. "How?"

Noticing the red marks embedded in her skin from the metal that once restrained her, he took her hands in his and stroked her wrist with the pad of his thumb. It was a fiercely intimate gesture, totally inappropriate and I did nothing but watch, dumbfounded. His voice softened. "I convinced them that this is all just one big misunderstanding. You're a wealthy, successful mother with responsibilities, goals, and a beautiful granddaughter to look after. You wouldn't throw all that away committing petty crimes like shoplifting, right?"

"Right," she giggled somewhat awkwardly. "I would never! My children need me." She planted a quick kiss on Emma's cheek before returning her attention to the tall, dark, and handsome detective.

Cadillac glanced at his watch. "I got about ten minutes left on lunch break. I'll take you home, then me and Tracey have some work stuff to do."

"Work stuff?" Mom asked.

"It's for the class we're taking together," I lied. "Dance stuff. Don't worry about it, Mom."

He escorted us to his black sedan in the parking lot. I climbed in the back with Emma, and Mom sat in the front passenger seat alongside Cadillac. He started the ignition and nosed the car into the heavy traffic of Los Santos.

Mom shifted toward him, her hand on his barrel-like chest. "Is there anything I can do to thank you, Detective?" She batted her long lashes, her gaze dropped to his luxurious black oxfords and glided up his body with a passionate yearning. He stopped at a red light and their eyes locked for a moment, a thick silence filled the space as they stared longingly into one another's eyes. As if my baby and I weren't _right here._

_Ew._ Resisting the urge to vomit, I turned away and fed my baby her bottle. Since when did these two get so friendly? They only met yesterday. Grudgingly, it reminded me of Franklin. When we first met, I was head over heels for him too…

"You can thank me by staying out of trouble," Cadillac was the first to break the quiet, his gaze returned to the road. "I won't always be here to save you, baby girl."

"Could you if I called?" Mom asked, her fingers toyed with the badge dangling from his neck. "I'm free tonight."

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"I don't like that sort of thing. It's a waste of my time. I'm a busy woman."

"I'm busy too, but I'm a classic man. I like to get to know the women I'm interested in. Can't we compromise? In the meantime, tell me what you _do _like."

"You. My bed. Wild sex." Mom grinned. "Things like that."

I covered Emma's ears. _Holy crap_. I was going to die from embarrassment. It was moments like this where I couldn't believe she was the woman who raised me. I thought of intervening on the conversation, but it was pointless. Once Mom set her sight on something, or _someone,_ nothing could get in her way. Except Dad, of course, but he was currently on hiatus.

Cadillac's mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. "Alright, so I'm guessing the 'I want to fuck you' approach usually works for you."

"Yes," Mom stated proudly. "Because I always get what I want."

"I'm not so easy. Sex isn't a casual thing for me, hon. It's more than a handshake. It's more than a meaningless transaction."

"Not everything needs meaning."

"Maybe I don't like being used."

"Maybe it's _you _using_ me_ for sex?"

"Nah," Cadillac shook his head. "That's definitely not the situation here."

"Fine, you don't want casual sex, I get it." Mom shrugged. "It's an issue. Whatever. Tell me what I need to do to get around it. Let's negotiate, sweetheart." _Wow. How could she talk about sex like a business agreement?_

"Okay." He went silent, mulling over the issue for a beat. "I'd like you to at least be my friend first. Talk to me. Make me feel like more than a damn object. Is that too much to ask for?"

Mom scoffed. "Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"We are, sort of. But it'd be better in a more intimate setting. Like over dinner, if you can last a few hours without propositioning me for sex."

"Oh, please." She leaned back into her seat and began to casually reapply her red lipstick in the rear-view mirror. "You want the same thing I want, but you'd rather me jump over hoops to get it. There's a name for that, honey. It's called playing hard to get."

Cadillac glanced back at me, a knowing smirk plastered on his face. I rolled my eyes. They were both gross. My best friend was missing, and I was stuck here. I couldn't wait to be out of this car. The anticipation was killing me. I had to find Smith. _Soon_, before I went crazy from missing him…

After what felt like forever, we arrived at our family home. Cadillac cut the engine at the end of the driveway. The moment we stepped out, Dad came rushing through the front door to meet us. However, Mom wasn't particularly glad to see him, her mouth twisted into a sneer at the sight of her husband. And honestly, I wasn't very happy to see Dad either.

"Hey, beautiful," Dad greeted Mom casually as if everything were normal, as if he hadn't abandoned his entire family for three days to go on a crime spree. "I missed you."

He tried to hug her, but she swatted his hands away. "Don't you dare!" she shouted, swerved past him and disappeared into the house without looking back.

"Whoa." Dad's gaze averted to me. "What's your mother's problem? Why's she so snappy?"

Aloofness showed on his face, but I wasn't buying it. "Don't play dumb, Dad. You know what you did."

I turned for the car. Dad grabbed my arm. "Hold on, sweetie. There's something I gotta know. What were you doing in Chumash the other day?"

"Saving your ass." I curved an arm under Emma, balancing her on my hip as I glared daggers into Dad. "So where's my husband? Why isn't he following you around like a lapdog?"

"Frank is doing some favors for me."

My body twitched. "Favors? Seriously? Dad, he's _my _husband. He has a family to look after. He has responsibilities. Taking care of your bullshit is not his priority!"

His hands shot up in a gesture of surrender. "Sweetheart, relax," he said softly, soothingly. "Franklin is gonna be home soon. We just need a few more days to set some shit right, and then everything will be back to—"

Cadillac emerged from the car. "Hey, sorry to interrupt, but my lunch break is over. Tracey, we gotta go."

Dad's head snapped forward; his gaze locked on Cadillac like a laser. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Dad, where's your effing manners?" I sighed. "He's my friend."

Dad stared at Cadillac's badge, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He yanked me aside. "Jesus fuck, your friends with a cop? I thought I raised you better than that."

"Whatever. You're being a total drama queen right now and I'm like, _so _over it."

I tried to pull away, but Dad's grasp on me was firm. "Before you go, I got some good news. That FIB guy who shot me, who kidnapped you—he's done for. You ain't gotta worry about him anymore, baby. I took care of him."

My pulse jumped, my brain refusing to make sense of what I was hearing. "You…you took c-care of him?"

"I put a bullet in 'em," Dad clarified without an ounce of shame. "He's slumped over in an alleyway right now, alone, bleeding to death if he isn't dead already. See, your old man is always looking out for ya. You can thank me later, sweetie. I love you…"

He kept talking, and talking, but his voice faded to the back of my mind. Every word that slipped from his lips was like a knife flaying at my heart. _No. No. It can't be true. It can't…_

A surge of hurt welled up inside me, followed by tears flowing down my face. The terrible world darkened, obscure, my mouth crumbled in a wail of fury and agonized sorrow. "_No!_" I cried, beating my fist against his chest the hardest I could with my baby in my arm. "_What have you done? How could you do this to me! Why!" _

I slapped, and I punched, and I screamed, my heart was literally in shambles, my sanity breaking at the seams, the pain was unbearable. _How could my own father do this to me? Why would he take my love away?_

The world was ending. The sky was falling. My entire life was a foggy blur of unbridled tears. My chest caved in on itself. I lost my footing, my knees scraping the ground. _Oh, god, I think I'm dying…_

A pair of bulky arms swept me up and whisked me away. I found myself in the front seat of a vehicle. Then we started moving. I had no clue where I was going, or where I was. My breath caught in my chest. My entire body ached. I couldn't stop crying…

A large hand captured my shoulder and shook me roughly. "Tracey!" Cadillac's voice found me. "You're having a panic attack! Snap out of it!" I lifted my leg and kicked the dashboard in a tantrum. "Hey! Stop! Why are you doing that?"

I kicked it again. "Don't you get it? My best friend is dead! My dad killed my man! My life is over—"

"I'm gonna kill you if you don't stop fucking up my car." He latched onto my ankles, pinning them in place. Then, soothingly, he spoke to me. "Focus on my voice. _Calm. Down. __Please._" His hand captured mine and squeezed gently. "Can you feel that? Can you feel me here with you? Your life isn't over. We're gonna get through this. It's all good."

I sniffed, the softness of his voice was sorta calming. I squeezed his hand with all the force I could muster, using his palm like a stress ball. He endured the pressure, unmoving as a statue. Just as I began to regain my senses, a startling realization shook me to the core. "Where's my baby?" I wiped the tears from my eyes in a panic to clear my vision. "I want my baby!"

"Right here." Cadillac passed me Emma from his lap. She was bawling at the top of her lungs, nose running, distraught by my erratic behavior no doubt. _Crap. _I cuddled her close to my chest, murmuring apologies in her ear. I didn't mean to scare her…

Cadillac's prolonged, concerned gaze bore into me. "Hey, you okay?"

Drained and lethargic, I leaned back into my seat. My thundering heartbeat eventually slowed. "I'm not okay," I said flatly. "Nothing about this is okay."

"I'm gonna need you to keep it together, hon. I know it's not easy, but you gotta try." He scrubbed a hand over his face, his dark eyes wet and weary. "While you were busy talking to your dad, before you had your emotional meltdown, I called the bureau. Olly didn't come into work today. The feds don't know where he is either. But now that we know what we know, I think it's time we start calling hospitals…and morgues."

A whimper slipped between my lips.

"Can you handle that?" he asked. "Or should I take you home?"

"I can handle it," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Okay then, let's go back to the station."

I stared blankly out the window as we drove, wishing I could rewind time to last night. If only I knew this would happen, I would've never let him leave my side. I would've told him how I really felt…

* * *

We spent the afternoon contacting hospitals and morgues all over the city. However, there was no record of an Oliver Smith. "This is crazy!" I paced Cadillac's office. "I don't understand! This is a huge effing city! Someone had to had seen him!"

"Uh-huh," Cadillac muttered as he filled out paperwork at his desk. "With all the calls we made, someone is bound to get back to us soon."

I went on, "Oliver is like, super tall, he wears a super expensive suit, and those shades—he wears them all the time, even at night. And his face, and that accent…_ugh_, he's so hot and he doesn't even know it. He sticks out like a sore thumb, like a walking, talking sex god."

"What?" Cadillac shook his head. "Olly is a lot of things, but a sex god ain't one of them."

"He has like, the cutest smile, and when he's upset, he looks so innocent. He has these sad little doe-eyes that make your heart melt. He's like a puppy, delicate and fragile…" I collapsed into the nearest seat and sighed. "I miss him."

"I miss him too, hon. And yeah, sometimes he does remind me of a puppy, a really traumatized one that's obsessed with murder and vengeance." He stopped writing and put the tip of his pen in his mouth, seemingly lost in thought. "You think your mom talks about me the same way you talk about Olly?"

I stifled a laugh. "Heck no. She just wants to bang you."

"Hey, at least somebody wants to. I'll take it."

"Her husband is a nutjob. You've been warned."

"I'm crazy too. It works out."

"I think you're the sanest out of all of us, Cadillac—"

"Andre," he corrected me once again. "You know what I've been wondering? What is it with us wanting things we can't have? Your mom is married, yet I can't stop fucking thinking about her. You're married, yet you can't seem to let go of Olly."

"It isn't the same," I replied. "You just met my mom."

"You ever meet someone and everything just…clicks? She had me at hello, as corny as that sounds. It's nuts because she's old, like really old—"

"Oh, shut up." I threw a pencil at him. "Dick."

"I'm kidding." He snickered and stood, taking a long moment to stretch his huge muscles. "But for real, who doesn't like the idea that you could meet someone randomly, a stranger, and then instantly, just like that," he snapped his finger, "they have some kind of magical hold on you that makes you want them—_need_ them against all logic and reason. You could wake up every morning next to this person and sleep good every night if you had them in your arms. You might not be their first kiss, their first date, their first fuck, but you wanna be their last everything."

A grin escaped me. The way Cadillac doted over my mom was adorable. To be so ripped, tough, and damn near threatening looking at times, he sure was soft on the inside. Like a teddy bear.

He suppressed a chuckle. "For real? Are you laughing at me?"

"I take back that bit I said about you being sane. You really are crazy if you believe you have a chance with my mom," I teased. "Get over it already, you're such a sap."

"Fuck off." Laughing, he flung his pen at me. I blocked it with my palm. "I'm going to get some coffee. Want a cup?"

"Sure—"

Cadillac's desk phone began to ring. He answered it and turned on the speaker, "Detective Jackson, how can I help you?"

"Hi Detective," a feminine, soft spoken voice said. "This is Hillary Banks, a medical examiner at the Los Santos County Coroner Office. I heard you were looking for a federal agent, Oliver Smith, am I right?"

"That's right."

"Okay, um, one moment while I verify something…"

There was silence on her end. I leaned on the edge of my seat, tapping my feet impatiently. _Please, say he isn't there. I still have hope…_

"Okay, so, I don't have any records of an Oliver Smith," she announced. _Thank god._ "But we did receive a huge shipment of bodies earlier that need identification. If you wanna come here and check it out, you are more than welcome to."

"I appreciate that," Cadillac said. "Thanks, Hillary."

"No problem! Take care, Detective."

Cadillac hung up and grabbed his gun off his desk. "Alright Tracey, let's pay the coroner office a visit."

* * *

**Thanks for reading, guys! Can you believe we're 10 chapters in already? Wow, time flies! Leave a review, your feedback is super important to me, lemme know what you think of this chapter please. Thank you so much for your support, love you guys!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys! I'm back with a new chapter (on time too!). Enjoy! It's in our girl Tracey's pov :D**

* * *

I dropped Emma off at Mom's place before heading to the morgue with Cadillac. This was no place for a baby. Covered bodies were wheeled in and out of the facility by careful technicians in scrubs and goggles. Hillary, the soft-spoken, blonde haired and blue-eyed medical examiner, escorted Cadillac and I through a maze of keypad secured doors. I was a bundle of raw, twitchy nerves when we entered a cold room of corpses enclosed in bags. There was a startling amount of them, enough to be lined from wall to wall. The pungent odor of death cloaked by antiseptic was enough to make my stomach churn.

I hugged myself. Jeez, it was freezing in here.

Hillary unzipped bag after bag, uncovering the pale, veiny faces of the dead. I stifled a sob with each new face revealed, the nagging worry that one of them could be Smith was tearing me apart. And everyone knew it. Hillary occasionally froze, her gaze settled on me periodically to check whether I was mentally ready to proceed. My wobbly knees were going to give out any second now. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide, to find some fresh air so I could pull myself together. But Cadillac's hand was set firmly on my shoulder. Instinctively, my sweaty fingers clasped to his shirt. His presence, calmness, and the overall sturdiness of his posture gave me the strength to carry on.

We had gone through a dozen unfamiliar faces before we reached the very last body. Only one more to check and we can get the heck outta here. _Yes!_ I can't wait to leave this terrible place. Smith wasn't in this stupid morgue. He was far too resourceful, clever, and cunning to be dead. My best friend was a total bad ass. No one could kill him, not even Dad.

Hillary unzipped the final bag. I stumbled at the sight of who was hidden underneath, my heart nearly burst from my chest.

_Oh my god._

My eyes stung, then flooded with tears. Disorientated, I stared at my best friend lying motionlessly on the gurney, eyes closed and peaceful, induced in eternal sleep. _No. This can't be happening, this can't be real…_

My limbs stiffened. I managed an impossible step forward and touched a hand over the open collar of his shirt. His skin was so cold. My palm trailed down to the bullet hole in his side. "No," I sobbed in utter disbelief, snot running down my nose as I stroked my trembling fingers through his silky locks. Even here, in this icy room, propped on a metal table with a fatal gunshot wound, he still looked handsome as ever, his luxurious hair framed his savagely gorgeous face…

Blood roared in my ears. Deeply traumatized by the thought of existing without him, my self-control snapped, my emotions spilling over. My tortured soul didn't break easy. I cried out at the top of my lungs, screaming from the hurt surging inside me.

"Wake up! Wake up, damn it!" Driven by passion, I shook him and shook him with unwavering determination. _"Please!"_ I prayed to the Gods above to have mercy on me just this once, to bring my love back. I refused to exist in a world without him. I _need _him. _I need _him to be alive. _Please, please, please…_

"Damn, Olly," Cadillac sighed heavily behind me. He seemed to be in total disbelief and confusion too. Immersed in my despair, I tore my blurry sight away from Smith and caught a glimpse of him. He looked desolate and gray, dark eyes tearing, deep shadows present in all the sharp planes and angles of his face over the demise of his friend. I wasn't the only one who was devastated.

Hillary sniffed, seemingly overwhelmed with sorrow despite knowing Smith at all. The heavy emotion radiating from Cadillac and I was enough to break anyone's composure. "I-I'm sorry for your loss, I'll be outside if you need me." She turned for the door and left.

I don't know how long I held him before the lingering hurt in my heart turned sour, transforming into an edged bitterness in my gut. How could Dad do this? How could Smith let him? He promised he wouldn't leave me. _He promised!_

**_Bam!_** I slammed my fist against the gurney's metal surface. With a quick, violent intake of breath, Smith jerked to life, shivering, gasping for air as if he were drowning. Holy crap! It was a miracle! Flustered and giddy by the phenomenon, I showered his cold cheeks and jaw with a frantic rush of kisses. He stiffened from the unbridled affection.

"Olly!" Cadillac beamed. "Holy shit, man, you're alive!"

Smith cleared his throat and scanned his surroundings, his expression impassive. "Where…t-the bloody hell am I?"

"In a morgue, and you're not dead!" I squealed energetically. I was literally on cloud nine, ecstatic that my best friend was okay. Wrapping one arm around Smith, I opened the other wide for Cadillac, ushering him over with a wave of my hand. "Group hug!"

Grinning, Cadillac closed the distance between us, his strapping arms caged our bodies in a warm hug. The embrace was comforting but short lived, an awkward laugh escaped him, and he took a step back. "Okay, enough of that—"

"No, c-come back, I beg of you," Smith tucked his hands between his armpits, still shivering, teeth chattering. "Hold me, d-dear friend. It is cold…so cold…"

I laid a hand on his forehead. "Wow, he really is cold," I glanced at Cadillac. "This can't be healthy."

Cadillac returned to his friend's side and rubbed his shoulders, using the friction to give off heat. "Shit, Olly, how long have you been in that body bag?"

"Too…long," Smith slurred, jaw stiff. Although his pulse was weak, and his voice lacked its usual vitality, his trembling fingers managed to slowly undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing a bulletproof vest underneath. There was a bullet lodged in the fabric. I sighed, closing my eyes, relief washed over me. I hugged him tighter. Smith was too resourceful to die _that _easy.

* * *

We tried to pry Smith for information regarding what happened to him, but he was chilled to the bone and could barely speak. However, he did muster the strength to adamantly refuse medical attention. After the traumatizing ordeal, he wanted nothing more than to go home. I didn't blame him. Cadillac and I helped him up the stairs to his apartment, and then he dismissed us with a flutter of his hand, sluggishly dragging his feet into the bathroom. The door closed behind him.

The water came on in the shower. I bet he was taking a hot one, he'll probably be in there a while. Hopefully, he'll be okay without supervision. Utterly exhausted, Cadillac collapsed on the couch, eyes closed. I sank into the cushions beside him, my head propped on his shoulder. "Thank you."

He peeked one eye open to glance at me. "For what?"

"For your help today dealing with my mom, my tantrums, my baby, and finding Oliver. I know me and my family can be a lot to deal with. I won't forget what you did. If you ever need anything—"

He shrugged off my gratitude with a lazy wave of his hand. "Don't mention it, hon. I'd do it again. It's my job to help people. I enjoy it."

"Except, you're technically not supposed to help criminals like my mom."

"Hey, everyone has a weakness. Your mom happens to be mine." He scratched his beard, thinking to himself. "Olly had to be in that body bag for hours, in that cold ass room no less…how did he survive the lack of oxygen? Better yet, who the fuck put him in the morgue in the first place?"

"I don't know. Maybe they thought he was dead? This could all be one big misunderstanding."

"Nah, I doubt it. Something about this doesn't feel right. There's some foul play goin' on here, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it." He shifted, his eyes glittering with determination found mine. "Can you do me a favor, sweets?"

"Anything."

"Olly isn't looking too good. He's probably going to be out of commission for a few days. Can you watch after him for me?"

"Of course," I flashed a reassuring smile. "I won't take my eyes off him."

"Good. And if anything happens, you call me immediately, okay? I'll be here in a heartbeat—" Cadillac's phone began to chime. He rooted through the pockets of his slacks and pulled it out. Mom's number was on the screen.

Cadillac smiled. I scoffed. Why did she have to be so persistent? Shouldn't she be taking care of Emma? "Put it on speaker," I demanded.

"No," he protested. "Why?"

"Because she's _my _mom. Just do it."

"Fine." He answered the call. "Hey, pretty lady."

"Andre, why haven't you been answering my texts?" Mom asked, annoyed.

"She's been texting you?" I whispered and punched his shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged, scooting away before I could hit him again. His attention averted to the phone. "I've been busy working. But it's nice to hear your voice."

"I like what I hear too," Mom responded. "You have a great voice for phone sex. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No," Cadillac swallowed deep. "Is that what you need right now?"

"I rather have you in my bed, but I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."

"I can give you a lot of things, baby girl. But my time comes with strings attached, and there's boundaries I won't cross."

"And I need intimacy. It's nonnegotiable, honey. I can't be around a body like yours and not touch."

"I need to know more about you than your anatomy," Cadillac countered. "Meet me for a drink? You can talk to me about anything—your hopes, your dreams, your desires—and I'll listen to every word. Baby, I can be more than a tool for your pleasure. I can be more than a release after a stressful day. I can be your _everything_, but you gotta let me in first. I wanna figure you out."

"Fine. We can discuss this further over drinks like you suggested. I'll text you an address, meet me in an hour. And for god's sake, if you're planning to play hard to get tonight, can you at least try and look less fuckable? It'll make my life a hell of a lot easier."

"Mandy…" Momentarily speechless, a blush darkened his cheeks. He lowered his head, probably to hide it from me. "Okay, hon. I'll see you soon." He hung up and scrubbed a hand over his face, leaning back against the couch.

I stared at him, arms crossed over my chest. "Well? Are you going or what?"

"There's so many other things I should be dealing with right now." He sighed. "Work stuff mostly. What would you do if you were me?"

"Well for starters, you're not gonna stand my mom up on a date. I don't care what kind of work crap you have to do, you made an obligation to my mother and now you're gonna see it through."

"For real? It's not that I don't wanna see your mom, because I do, more than anything. The thing is, I didn't think you'd be cool with it. I don't wanna make shit weird between us."

Honestly, I wasn't 'cool' with it. But my parents had their life, and I had mine. Whatever affairs they had going on with other people was none of my business. Sure, I was nosey sometimes, especially when it came to Mom. Her safety was my priority. But if she was going to cheat on Dad, Cadillac was a better candidate than the tennis coach and that asshole yoga instructor Fabien. Ugh, he was the worst. If only Dad could give up his life of crime and be a loving husband, things like this wouldn't happen.

I grabbed Cadillac by the collar of his shirt. "If you do anything to hurt my mom, I'll find you and kill you, got it?"

His mouth split in a wide grin, unfazed by my threat. "Is this your way of giving me your blessing?"

"Whatever." I released him and rose to my feet, strolling for the kitchen. I needed a drink. Bad. "Have a nice date with Mom. Don't be an asshole and I won't kick your ass!"

"Yeah, yeah." He stood, heading for the door. "I'll see you later, Trace! Call me if you need me, alright?"

"I will! See ya!"

Once Cadillac was gone, I popped open a bottle of wine and indulged myself in a glass. Knowing fully well that Mom was supposed to be babysitting Emma instead of going on spur of the moment dates, I called her up. She answered on the first ring, "Hey, honey. Everything okay?"

"No," I said. "You're going on a date with Cadillac? Really? What about Emma?"

"His name is Andre," she corrected. "And my date is in an hour, which would give you enough time to come pick up your daughter before I leave."

"Wow. You're the worst grandma ever."

"I have a life too, Tracey. You're the one who popped out this baby, she's your responsibility. Now come get her, I have places to be. If you need a babysitter that bad, hire one or call your fucking husband. Oh wait, you can't, because he's god-knows-where with Michael and that fucking meth head Trevor, committing every crime there is under the motherfucking sun—" There was a _slam _in the background. I cringed at the sound. "Those fucking lunatics! If you see your father, tell him he's dead to me!" With a loud _click_, the line went dead.

Yikes. Mom was _not_ in a good mood. Cadillac was gonna need some serious luck dealing with her temper. Better pick up Emma now than later. Just as I finished draining my glass, I noticed Smith's phone light up on the counter. Ten missed calls from his sister. Jeez, what did she want? Whatever, I didn't have time to deal with her right now. Emma was more important. I went to check on my partner before leaving.

I found him lying on his back in only a pair of sweatpants, his eyes shut tight. He was still shivering, still suffering, a frown marred the space between his brows. Careful not to startle him, I brushed a finger over his forehead lightly. His freshly showered skin remained cold to the touch.

"It's much warmer under the covers," I urged softly.

He murmured something unintelligible. I scoured the nearby drawers for sheets and spread them over him. Hopefully it was enough to raise his temperature. I hated leaving him in this condition, but I had to. "I'm going to pick up Emma," I said. "Do you need anything before I go?"

His mouth twitched. He was trying to say something, but then stopped flat. I winced. He was so weak. It hurt to see him like this. "I'll come back soon, okay?" I stroked his cheek. "I'll always come back to you, Olly."

* * *

I took a cab to Rockford Hills, grabbed Emma, and came straight back. I put my baby to sleep, took a shower, and joined Smith in bed. He was fast asleep, and no longer shivering bundled up in warm sheets. I was tempted to cuddle up against his shirtless body, but I didn't want to chance making any sudden movements and waking him. He's been through a lot and needed rest. I turned off the lamp and rolled to the other side of the mattress, giving him more than enough space to sleep undisturbed.

When I woke it was still dark in the room. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and checked the time. Two in the morning. I was a heavy sleeper and I could usually sleep through the night with ease. Maybe the unfamiliarity of Smith's apartment had me on edge, I was still getting used to this place.

Then Smith groaned and stirred fitfully, and I realized what had wakened me. He let out a sound of anguish, the consecutive quiver of breath he blew between his clenched teeth tortured.

"No," he whispered harshly. "Please! You are hurting me!"

His words cut through the dark, fierce and filled with pain. I whipped around to face him, chewing on my lower lip, my heart raced.

"Don't. You mustn't…" He strained, fisting the sheets and kicking at them.

He was dreaming. Dad used to have violent nightmares like this. Knowing better than to touch a man in a throe of one, I rose from the bed and spoke to him from a distance. "Oliver?" He stilled at the call of his name, chest heaving. His body was drenched in sweat. I fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen and held it to his lips. "Here. Drink this. You need it."

Still fighting off the remnants of his bad dream, he sat up slowly, and grasped the cup. I settled my palm over his shaking hands, helping him hold the glass steady as he drank. He emptied it in one gulp, fell onto his back, and flung his arm over his closed eyes before lying still again. There was something eating at him, something darker, and more harrowing than what he faced today. It broke my heart just thinking about the demons that plagued his mind. Life hadn't been kind to him. He deserved better.

* * *

We slept through the morning and far into the following night. I climbed out of bed frequently to care for Emma. Once she was content, I tended to Smith next. He was running a bad fever, lethargic and queasy. He spent what little energy he had vomiting profusely. If his health didn't improve soon, I'm calling a doctor whether he liked it or not.

Smith's annoying sister has been blowing up his cellular and house phone for hours now. He was in no condition to pick up, and for obvious reasons, I was reluctant to answer myself. Whatever she wanted could wait. At least that's what I thought until the bitch showed up at the door. Apparently, it was urgent.

"Oliver!" She beat her fist against the door. "I know you are in there! Open up, you miserable bastard! How dare you ignore me!"

Bothered by the noise, Emma started bawling. _Ugh._ I swept up my disgruntled baby and yanked open the door. "What the hell do you want?"

Flushing darkly, she exploded, "Where's my brother? What have you done with him, whore?"

I merely rolled my eyes, too exhausted to be angry. "What do you care? I thought you hated him."

"He is a waste of both air and space, but he is my kin. And if you have done something to him, I'll kill you with my own bloody hands—"

"He's fine. Now go away."

I tried to close the door, but she stuck out her arm, a soft gasp escaped her. "He is alive? Are you certain?"

"Um, duh. Of course, he's alive. He's in bed right now catching up on sleep as we speak."

"If your words are true, why isn't he returning my calls?"

"Maybe he would if you were less of a cunt. Bye." I flipped her the bird and slammed the door in her face. That bitch was nothing but drama. Her brother had such good manners, what happened to hers?

Despite my efforts to soothe her, Emma wouldn't stop crying and it was driving me crazy. There was another knock at the door. Who was it now? It had better not be the same snobby slut from earlier. Irritated, I shoved it open. Cadillac appeared in a pair of worn jeans, and boots. A huge, repulsive looking hickey peeked from the black fabric of his turtleneck. I wrinkled my nose at the purple bruise. "Yikes. Did you get bit by a vampire last night?"

"Nah, it was just your mom." He raised his voice over Emma's wailing and slid past me into the apartment. "Where's Olly?"

"Either in bed or vomiting his guts out."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He has a fever, I think."

Cadillac frowned at the news. "Think we should take him to the hospital?"

"He doesn't wanna go to the hospital."

"Well, we gotta do something."

"Some over-the-counter medicine should help. I would've gone to get some but I don't wanna leave Smith unless I absolutely have to."

"It's all good. I'll take care of it." He gently took Emma from my arms and cradled her in his. Apparently, I must have looked like I needed the help. "Tracey, why don't you go relax? I can handle Emma for a bit."

With all his muscle and brawn, he was miraculously gentle and nurturing. Still, she was my responsibility. Not his. "Are you sure? She's really cranky today."

"I deal with cranky people at the station all the time. It's fine. I got a knack for this sort of thing." He tickled Emma's stomach, and put on a high-pitched baby voice. "What's wrong, buttercup? Why you so cranky, booboo?" Her crying came to an abrupt halt, and he was rewarded with a cute gurgle of laughter from her. She grabbed at his face, her tiny fingers toyed with his beard. It was a heartwarming relief to witness. A much-needed silence had returned to the apartment.

Cadillac carried Emma into the kitchen for a snack. While he was in full-fledged nanny mode, I flopped on the sofa to rest my eyes. Being a mother was a stressful, thankless job, and taking care of a sick person on top of that? So exhausting. I need a break.

I dozed off for some time and was roused back to reality by the tender sensation of lips grazing my brow. I smiled as I inhaled the rich, masculine scent of my partner. He hovered over me, so close that his warm, minty breath fanned my face. His piercing blue gaze searched mine. My heartbeat sped up and energy thrummed through me, from nervousness or happiness, I wasn't sure.

"Tracey," he brushed the backs of his fingers over my cheek. "You are blushing."

The twinge of amusement in his voice was mortifying. I buried my burning face against his shoulder and murmured, "How are you feeling?"

Casually, he removed the band securing my disheveled ponytail, and began to redo the style, combing my strands back with his fingers to tame my messy hair. It was a sweet gesture, and I seriously needed the pampering. "I am better with the aid of medicine," he answered.

"You're welcome!" Cadillac shouted from the kitchen. He towered over the stove, sautéing something that smelled a lot like garlic and chicken. Yum. "Yo, Olly, c'mere, man! I miss you!"

Emma crawled about on the living room floor, laughing at the sound of Cadillac's boisterous tone. Smith rose at his friend's call. "No! I miss him more!" I jumped up and clung to his back. Instinctively, he curled his hands under my thighs before I fell, holding me piggyback. I squealed, full of adrenaline now that my partner was his normal self again, my arms wrapped around his neck. "Don't leave me! Take me with you!"

"There is more than enough of me to go around," he said with a lopsided grin. "Now get down before you kill me."

"No, I like it when you carry me." I pressed my face into the sensitive curve of his neck and caressed his skin with wet, open-mouthed kisses. It was my way of showing affection, I wasn't very good with words, and I had missed him so much.

He shuddered and tensed, his grip on my legs tightening. "_Ah_, Tracey…" He hummed, a mixture of pleasure and pain. "That feels delightful. What did I do to deserve such treatment?"

I lifted my head and trailed my tongue over the nape of his neck. He trembled. I loved the way his body reacted to my touch. "You deserve so much more than this."

"Whatever do you mean? Everything I want and need is right here." He set me down on a nearby chair, giving me a front row seat view of his navel and the sculpted muscles of his abdomen. I hugged his waist, my nose nuzzled against his pecs. His skin was riddled with obscure scars in the process of healing. I wanted to kiss every one of them, he was beautiful to me regardless of his wounds.

He stood before me, silently threading his fingers through my hair, and made no effort to move. For a long while, we did nothing but enjoy each other's presence. And warmth. _How did we get here?_ I asked myself. It used to be all business between me and this remarkably sexy man. Now we couldn't keep our hands off one another. My heart fluttered almost painfully in my chest. I loved him with every fiber of my being, but I was too much of a coward to admit it out loud.

The news of his father's death came to mind. Should I tell him? No, I'm not gonna ruin the moment. He seemed content, unburdened by his demons, for now. I did have some questions that needed answering, though.

"Come here," I tugged at his hand. I wanted his full attention.

His strong, limber body dipped at my command, his nose nuzzled mine. "What is it, love?"

I swept the blonde tendrils of hair out of his face and stared deep into his riveting blue eyes. They sparkled with adoration for me. His soft lips curved into a smile bright enough to pierce the darkness of the night, enticing and shining and mysterious, and I wanted him so bad it hurt.

Although it was a struggle, I ignored the heat building between my legs and focused on conversation alone. "What happened between you and Dad?"

"He was being held against his will," he said. "I did what was necessary to free him."

"And then what? He shot you?"

"Yes."

I studied his composed expression. Why wasn't he angry? If the roles were reversed, I'd be _thoroughly _pissed. "For someone who's been shot and mistakenly pronounced dead, you're taking it surprisingly well. Aren't you mad? Like at all?"

He planted a gentle kiss on my forehead and drew away, gathering Emma in his arms before she crawled under a table. She was more inquisitive than usual today, her little hands grappled at every item she could find on the carpeted floors for close inspection. Smith set her down in the center of the room, giving her more than enough space to safely explore her surroundings.

His striking gaze settled on me once again. "I do not blame your father for what he has done," he said. "Although his actions may be brutal and unwarranted at times, he wants nothing more than to protect you from harm. To him, I am a threat to your safety."

"My dad is a psycho," I argued hotly. "Stop defending him, Smith. He tried to kill you! He belongs in an effing loony bin."

"Relax, love. You mustn't be so harsh. He is your father, and he loves you dearly."

I shook my head. "You're such a hypocrite."

"Aren't we all?" Knowing how much I loved to be whisked around, Smith scooped me up bridal style and carried me over to the couch. He lowered me onto the cushions with excruciating care, and lounged next to me, his feet propped on the coffee table. With a deep sigh, he leaned back, sinking into the comfort of the sofa. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he kept one hand fisted, a network of thick veins coursed up his arm.

He seemed anxious. _Why?_ In one quick motion, I straddled him, my arms draped around his neck. I pecked the captivating beauty mark on his temple and then nuzzled my cheek against his, teasing his earlobe with wet licks of my tongue. His body remained rigid and tense, but my mischievousness drew a chuckle out of him, at least.

I rested my hands against his abdomen. A shiver moved through me when I felt the hard ridges of muscle tighten beneath my palms. "Do you like me to touch you there?" I asked, genuinely curious whether I was the reason for his anxiousness or not. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"Hmm." His head tilted to the side as he studied me, a shy, sweet smile pulled at his lips. "To be blunt, such tenderness is peculiar to me. Foreign."

"Really? Haven't you dated people in the past?"

"No."

I stared at him as if he had grown two heads. He had a face that stuck out in a crowd and a body hot enough to make any girl salivate with a single glance. His graceful, collected demeanor alone was enthralling. There had to be plenty of women who found him just as attractive as I did. "But you have a daughter. And you don't seem like a one-night stand type of guy."

He nodded. "You are right to make that assumption."

"Okay." I scratched my head, helplessly confused. "So what am I missing here—"

His mouth slanted over mine, silencing me with a kiss. The deep, unhurried caress of his lips was wildly passionate, possessive, and tasted of mint. Our intimacy was like a drug, and I had gone mindless with desire, heat warmed me to the core. He wound his hand in my hair, deepening the kiss, intensifying the burning ache in the center of my being. I was breathless once he let me up for air. Dizzy with lust for him, I had completely forgotten what we were talking about before.

"I missed you," he murmured in that sexy, elegantly accented voice I was so hopelessly addicted to.

The haunting vision of him lying on the gurney at the morgue flashed through my mind. My eyes stung. I did my best to fight back the tears. "I thought you were dead."

"I can be quite difficult to be rid of. Many have tried in the past." He tipped my chin up to plant a kiss on the tip of my nose. "You will not lose me."

"I really hope you mean that. You have no idea how hard these past few days have been. My life has been an emotional roller coaster. It's hard to function without you." My fingers plucked at the hem of my T-shirt. "Pathetic, right?"

"Not at all." His arms circled around me, and he drew me to his chest in a sheltering embrace, my head tucked beneath his chin. His loving touch was like a healing balm that mended the hurt and smoothed out the jagged edges of my heart. I melted against him, my lips ghosted the flushed skin of his collarbone.

"Emotions do not make you weak, love." I felt his lips brush against the crown of my head as he spoke. "You are allowed to feel. Give yourself that liberty without shame."

My thumb skimmed lightly over the faded scar above his navel. "I wish I could be strong like you."

"There is no need. I am strong enough for the both of us." His eyes drifted to the bruises on my arm. "You are such a delicate creature, and this dreadful city has scarred you so beautifully. If only I could be like you, good and just, unsullied by the crime, the madness…" His voice trailed off into silence. I looked up at him. He was brooding, his gaze distant and expression somber. A raw, profound sadness glittered in his eyes. His head was in a very dark place and it sucked that he wouldn't let me in.

Once he noticed I was staring, his face relapsed into its usual bland, passive mask. He went on, "Los Santos can snuff out the light in the purest of hearts and damage the soul beyond repair. It is a small wonder you remain uncorrupt."

"I never committed murder or robbery, but I've done bad things. We all have." I played with the ends of his hair, enjoying the silky texture between my fingertips. "I don't wanna follow in my dad's footsteps. I like helping people, not hurting them. I wanna be like you."

"Like me?" His cheeks colored fiercely. "I-I am flattered, truly, but you may want to reconsider, love. I am as flawed as they come—"

"No, you're not! You're awesome, and smart, and since the day we've met, you've always taken good care of me."

"And I will continue to do so. I live for it." He broke the tension of the moment by tickling my sides. I squirmed and pulled away from him, giggling. He drew me right back into his lap, my spine pressed against his chest. I was feeling way too frisky to keep still though. I pivoted, worming my way out of his grasp.

Looking to burn off some excess energy and pent-up stress, I challenged my best friend to a sparring match. "Fight me, federal agent man!" I dove on top of him. I attempted to punch him, and as expected, he caught my fist. So I tried to hit him with the other, but he ducked and threw me over his shoulder like I was nothing but a rag doll. The couch broke my fall. "Ow," I wrinkled my nose in protest. "No fair."

He snorted pretentiously. "You are as clumsy as you are cute, and I find you to be utterly adorable."

"Shut up. I'm not cute." I scrambled to my feet and charged at him. He stepped aside at the last second, outmaneuvering me once again. His arm curved around my waist from behind and he hoisted me into the air, my torso dangled over his shoulder. "Hey!" Legs flailing, I beat my fist against his back, which was as effective as hitting a stone wall. Still, I was having a blast. Wrestling with him was always fun. "Stop manhandling me! Let go!"

"Perhaps I will," he pinched my thigh. "Only if you promise to behave yourself like a proper human being."

"No! Behaving is boring. You can't make me!"

"Dinner's ready!" Cadillac announced. "Come get it while it's hot—"

There was a **_crash_**, the sudden noise was loud enough to stop my heart in my chest. Smith immediately set me down. My fight or flight reflex kicked in, and I lunged for my baby. Emma burst into tears. "Tracey!" Uncle T stamped into the living room in a blind fury, ogling at me with wild, crazy eyes, the stench of hard alcohol emanated from his oil-stained clothes in awful waves. He trembled on the edge of hysteria, the pistol in the palm of his hand shaking visibly.

Cadillac emerged from the kitchen. His brows shot up at the sight of my deranged uncle. "Who are you?"

"Back up, homie!" Uncle T shoved the gun in his face. "You're invading my personal space. I'm not that easy, okay? If you wanna fuck me, you'll have to take me out for dinner first—"

"Don't shoot!" I cried, taking shelter behind Smith. _How did he find me? _Whatever Trevor needed from me, I wanted no part of it. The danger signs were in his eyes, his pupils barely visible. He was holding on by a thread, his body half-swooning and quaking uncontrollably. I've seen him like this before and it was terrifying.

"Tracey," he slurred, reaching out to me. "I'm here to take you home. Remember your husband, Frank? He needs your love, support, and affection. Actually, fuck that, t-there's no reason to sugarcoat it! He's lonely, he needs a piece of his wife's ass!"

My skin crawled. _What kind of effing drugs is he on right now?_

Smith gauged my distraught expression. Then, he came to my defense, taking a fearless step toward my insane uncle. "Tracey will not be going anywhere with you. If you want her, you will have to go through me first."

"Oh yeah?" Uncle T threw his gun aside and rose his calloused, blistered fists. "Well come…come on then. Let's settle this like men, eh? Show me what you got, you pompous fuck. I'm gonna kick the shit outta you…" His grating voice trailed off and he stumbled, hitting the floor with a resounding **_thud_**.

We all gaped at Trevor's limp body; my heart sank to my toes. "Um, is Uncle T okay?"

"Hold up." Cadillac's gaze snapped to me. "This crazy ass dude is your uncle?"

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading! Leave a review, fav and follow if you havent already, please! I really appreciate your support and honest feedback, it inspires me to keep writing this. love you guys, see you next week! **


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey guys, back with an update! CAUTION: this chapter has explicit sexual content! You've been warned! Enjoy ;)**

* * *

Worried sick that Trevor may have overdosed, I called an ambulance to come get him. He awoke the moment the paramedics strapped him into the stretcher, his mean, rugged face screwed-up into a twisted mass of uncontrollable rage. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" He screamed and cursed, struggling fiercely against his restraints. Terrified for their safety, the paramedics stuck him with a needle to sedate him. It hurt to watch. "Tracey! Don't let them take me! I'll be good! I promise!"

My heart clenched. "It's for your own good, Uncle T," I said, standing at a safe distance alongside my trusted partner. They loaded him into the truck and drove away. I went back inside, my heart sinking low in my chest. Hopefully I made the right decision. Worst case scenario: he breaks out and murders every doctor and nurse he can get his hands on. Then he'll bust in here and kill me next. Best case scenario: he goes to rehab and gets clean…_not._

Yeah, he was definitely gonna slaughter all of us when he got out. Doing the right thing was more trouble than it was worth.

I considered calling Dad to let him know Trevor was in the hospital, but the thought of hearing his voice made me queasy. He shot Oliver. I couldn't get over it.

I called my husband instead. He answered on the second ring. "Trace?"

Hearing the deep, velvety rasp of his voice again after so long…my heart squeezed. I missed his great strong arms, the way his full lips felt against mine, the soft golden glow of his hazel eyes whenever he looked at me…_oh god. _What am I doing? Why am I here? I should be home with my husband.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I shut myself in the bathroom so no one could overhear our conversation. "I miss you," I said. "Come get me, babe. Please."

"Trace…" His voice softened. I could hear the sounds of traffic and car horns in the background. "Is Emma a'ight?"

"Our daughter is fine," I sighed. "What about me, Frank? Don't you care about me?"

"Baby, I love you," he confessed without hesitation. "There's a lot on my mind. We need to talk, but it can't happen right now. I'm still handlin' shit with your pops."

I clenched my fists, my nails dug into my skin. _I'm so effing tired of my dad and his bullshit!_ "Franklin, you're not Dad's lapdog," I whispered harshly. "Whatever you're doing for him isn't more important than your marriage. I'm your wife, and I _need_ you to be here."

"Babe, I'm sorry. I need more time. Just wait for me, girl. It won't be much longer—"

Feeling heartsick and neglected, I lashed out, my limbs trembled with fury. "Fuck you. I'm done waiting! I know you're back in the game again. Are you having fun being a lowlife, petty fucking criminal? You must be so proud of yourself."

"Trace—"

"Shut up," I cut him off. I didn't wanna hear anything he had to say. I was so done with the excuses. "Trevor's in the hospital by the way. I bet you'll make time for him since everyone else in your life is apparently more important to you than your own fucking wife and child. Call me back when you learn how to be a fucking man, asshole!"

I flung my phone, and it hit the wall with a satisfying _crack_. I tried to hold in the hurt, the jealousy, the stress, but it all came pouring out in the form of hysterical sobs. I didn't think I had any tears left after the way I cried over Smith earlier, but I did. My sorrow was caged up inside, waiting to break free for the world to see at the smallest inconvenience.

I dropped to the floor, hugged my knees to my chest, and wept. My husband didn't care about me anymore. He had more important things to attend to. I was an afterthought to him now. To everyone. I felt small. Insignificant.

There was a knock at the door. "Tracey?" Smith's voice seeped through the cracks. "Love, are you alright?"

I couldn't muster the strength to respond. My chin trembled. All I could do was whimper like a distressed child. Maybe it was for the best. I wasn't in the mood to talk. I wanted to be alone, I needed time to myself.

But he was persistent, determined to pass the physical and emotional threshold that kept us apart. "You are hurting. And that is fine, it is okay to cry. It is only natural to feel, however small, however much. But I will not allow you to suffer alone. Do you hear me?" He rattled the doorknob. "Your problems are my problems, and mine are yours. We are in this together."

"Go away," I mumbled, my voice clogged with emotion.

"Oh, sweetheart…" He sounded so impassioned, so anxious. "I must insist that you let me in. Hearing you shed tears, isolated from the rest of the world, from _me_…" He sighed. "It is unbearable. I beg of you, do not push me away. _Please._"

He was hurting too. The pain was evident in his heavy breathing, and the quaking of his voice. I crawled on all fours to the door and turned the lock. He slipped in, shut the door behind him with the back of his heel, and I barely managed to rise to my feet before he gathered me into his arms. He held me tight, rubbing my back in soothing circles as I sobbed into his chest, my hands clutching at his waist.

Smith didn't seem to mind my ugly crying, or the tears and snot that stained his white dress shirt. He remained tall, graceful, and sturdy as a statue—a beacon of support and undying fortitude, his composure remarkably intact despite all the horrors and uncertainty we faced today. I stroked the underside of his muscled arm in silent gratitude. In my darkest moments, whenever I felt scared and alone, like my life was falling apart and the world was going to split open and swallow me whole, he'd always catch me. He'd pull me from the brink of the abyss into the light. He'd renew the fading hope within me.

God knows where I'd be if I didn't have him in my life.

Once my sobs quieted, his palms cupped my behind and he lifted me off my feet, setting me down on the edge of the sink. With the higher elevation, we were eye to eye. He stepped forward and settled himself comfortably between my thighs. I hooked my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The bulge between his legs brushed against my core with every slight movement. The teasing sensation was a nice distraction, and I figured he probably put me in this _very_ intimate position to comfort me. He knew how much I craved sensuality.

"Dry your eyes, love," he kissed the tear tracks on my cheeks. "Let go, such sadness is too great of a burden to bear. We are safe. We have each other. All is well."

"Franklin hates me. He doesn't care about Emma. Mom is too busy stressing over her marriage to pay me any attention. And Dad sucks, as usual. Uncle T is in the hospital. My brother is a moron." I sniffed, my fingers toyed with one of the buttons of his shirt. "All I have is you. And Cadillac, I guess."

"You will always have me." His grip on my thighs firm, he tugged me into a deft roll of his hips. I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to the blissful caress. Sliding my fingers through his hair, I nuzzled my face in his neck, ravishing his tender skin with more love bites. The erotic, low growl of approval that slipped through his lips was enough to make me shiver. He was hard now, straining against the sleek confides of his slacks from my nearness alone and I could feel every thick inch of him begging to be released.

"Tell me," he murmured, "Is there anything I can do to ease your worries?"

I lifted my head to look into his eyes. "There's only two things that can make me feel better right now."

"And what might that be?"

"Drinks. Lots of drinks. And you inside me."

He froze, a deep, fiercely red blush overwhelmed his cheeks. _So cute._

"I'll take either one," I continued. "Or both, if you're willing to pay for the drinks. The order doesn't matter."

"I-I see." Smith took a moment to regain his composure, his teeth gleamed in a sheepish grin. "Money is of little consequence. There is a bar nearby. If you are up for the walk, you may drink to your heart's content."

I ran a finger over the concealed fly of his slacks, teasing the tip of his rock-hard erection. He quaked, and bit down on his soft, kissable lips. "Then I can have you?" I asked.

"Perhaps." He captured my wrist and planted a sweet kiss on my palm. "One step at a time, love. The night is young, we have enough time to get more…_deeply_ acquainted with one another." His melodious voice lowered suggestively. I tingled all over from the lovely cadence of his tone. I could only imagine how sexy he sounded in the bedroom. My face heated at the thought of Smith uttering sultry, sinful words in the dark. Such a turn on.

He caught a glimpse of my flustered expression, the easy smile that played at the corner of his mouth made him impossibly more handsome. _God…_why did he have to make me wait to have him? I was wet, and aching—it was torture. I wanted him so bad, the clawing desire was bound to drive me crazy if it wasn't satiated soon…

* * *

The bar was only across the street from Smith's place, and I was thankful for the short trip. It was more of a dingy dive in comparison to the upscale hot spots I was used to in Vinewood, but I liked the vibe. Pop music dominated the dance floor, and the gyrating crowd was mostly young. I haven't had the luxury of partying since I became a mother. My responsibilities came first, there was simply no time. Cadillac was more than happy to babysit during my absence, however. In fact, he urged me to go. He thought a few drinks and some time to unwind would be good for me after the day I had. For a hardened Los Santos detective, he was awfully emphatic.

Conversation swirling all around us, Smith guided me through the tight cluster of moving bodies to the packed bar. Business was booming in this place; every single seat was occupied. The bartender, an older gentleman who was in the process of cleaning up a spill on the counter, dropped his rag at the sight of my partner and beckoned a gorgeous hostess over with a wave of his hand. He whispered something in her ear, and she immediately took off in our direction.

"Right this way." She led us upstairs to a secluded, dimly lit VIP section that overlooked the dance floor. We were escorted to small seating area by the balcony. I settled for the table and leather sofa near the private bar. The closer we were to the alcohol, the better. The hostess propped a plastic menu in the center and said, "All drinks are on the house, alright? Enjoy your evening, you two."

"Wow," I beamed, crossing one leg over the other. Gazing at all the little people below us, I was feeling like a superstar. "Do you think they recognized me from Dad's movie shoots? Or Fame or Shame?"

"Neither," Smith said, examining the menu. "My father owns this venue, and many others."

"But not anymore, right? Because he's dead—" I bit my tongue. _Oh crap_.

Smith stiffened, the blood drained from his face. He was pale, ghostly white, and his terrible reaction made me wanna kick myself. How could I let such sensitive news slip so carelessly?

"So…" I coughed awkwardly. I need to change the subject, and quick. "Nice place, huh? The hostess was cool—"

"Tracey, transparency between us is of the utmost importance. Anything less will not be tolerated." His voice was unsettlingly authoritative, devoid of passion, and the intensity of his cold stare chilled me to the bone. "What do you know of my father?"

Now that the cat was out of the bag, I might as well tell him the truth. "He's dead, Smith. Your sister has been trying to get in touch with you for days to let you know."

"I see." He folded his arms over his chest, and kept his features deceptively composed. Despite his closed and guarded body language, I could sense his vulnerability. He was a hard man in a lot of ways, but he felt deeply. Instead of letting it out, he preferred to bottle the emotion up inside until it spilled over. And the result was deadly. I remembered all too well the gun he pointed at his own head. The haunting vision was ingrained in my mind…

"Why would you keep this from me?" His question pulled me from my thoughts.

"I was going to tell you," I replied. "But I didn't know how. I didn't wanna make you upset—"

"Nonsense. With time, all secrets are revealed. Withholding them is a tedious, pointless practice. You should know better."

His patronizing tone was _so _aggravating. "Don't talk to me like I'm an effing child. I kept the truth from you because I didn't wanna hurt you. The rest of your family might not give a shit about the way you feel, but I do. You're not gonna sit here and make me feel like the bad guy because of it. I won't let you."

A muscle ticked in his chiseled jaw. He lowered his head and looked away, brooding, creating a space around himself, a place to be isolated in despite my presence. Despite the hundreds of people occupying the venue. He was able to withdraw from me and the rest of the world so effortlessly, I wondered if he took comfort in solitude. Why hasn't he dated anyone in the past? Did he prefer to be alone? Were relationships too much of a headache? Was his sister right about him having an issue with commitment? Who was the mother of his child? Why didn't he ever talk about her?

Less than an hour ago, he pleaded with me not to push him away, and now he was the one being emotionally distant instead. He was a private person and I tried to respect that. But how could he demand transparency and openness from me and be unwilling to give the same in return? _It's not fair. _

I pushed the swirl of upsetting thoughts to the back of my mind once a pretty waitress arrived to take our order. "I'll take a Passion Fruit Martini," I said.

She glanced at my partner and flashed him a wide, flirtatious smile. "And what can I get you, Mr. Smith?"

He didn't even look at her. "Water. Thank you."

"So, you only drink when you're suicidal," I snorted, handing the waitress our menu. "Nice."

Smith was being distant, and I was feeling pissy and confrontational about it. He took my condescending comment rather well, though. "Dancing with one's demons is better done while intoxicated, agreed?" He gave me a brittle, waning smile, and I knew he was trying his best to maintain appearances, struggling to feign a demeanor of happiness despite just now learning of his father's demise. My heart broke for him. If I could kick my own ass, I totally would right now. All I had to do was keep my big mouth shut, at least until we got home. This was not the place for mourning.

"Screw the martini," I stood. "Let's get out of here, Olly. Let's go home—"

He grabbed my hand and drew me back onto the sofa. "No. We will remain here. Enjoy yourself, you need this."

I brushed my fingertips over his cheek. How could he be selfless during a time like this? "What about what you need?"

Silently, he closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into my palm, as if the burden of keeping his own head above his shoulders was too much to bear. My body cleaved to his and I held him until our drinks arrived.

My martini was blissfully sweet, refreshing, and I drained the glass in seconds. Smith watched in awe, his mouth twitched with amusement. "On second thought, perhaps I should have requested the same beverage as you."

"Nah. You like the hard stuff." I called over the waitress and asked for some shots of whiskey. I took full advantage of the fact that they were free, ordering six of them so we had more than enough to go around.

Smith winced at the row of shots before us. "This is a tad bit excessive, don't you think?"

"Not for me." I chugged three shots in rapid succession, forcing down the harsh, bitter taste. "Your turn." He swallowed one and set the others aside for later. A hastily suppressed chuckle escaped him. I poked his shoulder. "What's so funny?"

"You." He turned to face me. "Do you recall the last time we visited a venue like this?"

"You mean the nightclub we went to the first day we met?" I laughed at the thought of it. "I asked you to convince the bouncer to let Chop inside, and you _actually_ pulled it off. I still can't believe it."

"I had no choice in the matter. It was my job to carry out your bidding."

"Aw, you know you liked it."

"Rarely. Most of the time you were quite insufferable indeed. The dancing dog though—now that was a treat. Chop is more intelligent than the average mutt. He can dance better than me, I've never seen anything like it."

"The best part about that night was you breaking that stalker kid's arm." I laid my head on his shoulder, reminiscing about all the times he saved my life. "You were always so protective of me."

"I was smitten the moment I laid eyes on you at the hotel."

My stomach did a quick somersault. _He liked me back then?_ "Seriously?"

He nodded, unashamed. "You were well known around the country, and I had heard of you time and time again before I was appointed as your bodyguard. Then, I saw you immersed in grief, crying in earnest, raw, shaken, and human—no makeup, no cameras…" His fingers intertwined with mine. "You were a tortured, fragile thing on the verge of breaking and I thought we could relate in our suffering. I wanted nothing more than to soothe your pain. There is an inherent romanticism in the mending of a broken heart."

Perplexed, I studied him as if he were a tricky jigsaw puzzle. "You sure are a romantic for a guy who hasn't been in a meaningful physical relationship in like forever. How'd you go on for so long without it? Don't you like sex? Or the idea of it, at least?"

A flicker of humor strayed across his face. "I fancy the idea of you naked and writhing beneath me, Tracey."

I drew a sharp breath, and shivered, cheeks burning. His smooth, sophisticated voice was way too seductive for its own good. "Do you really?"

"Are you surprised? I trust you have noticed the palpable signs of my desire many times in the past."

I inhaled, the recollection of him in all his refined sophistication, trembling with lust for me as I stroked his cock through the expensive fabric of his tailored slacks…_so hot_. I smiled with feminine triumph. He had such a magnificent package between his legs, and I was confident no other woman could make his body react as severely as I did.

He took another shot, swirling the bitterly strong whiskey around in his mouth, savoring the taste like it was fine wine. He licked his lips after he swallowed, the workings of his mouth made my temperature rise and I couldn't help but wonder how good his tongue would feel in other places…

My mind was filled with sinful, sexual fantasies. It was hard to think about anything else. Jeez, not having Franklin around to satisfy my urges was really starting to get to me…

I tore my eyes away from Smith's gorgeous face and distracted myself with the flashing lights hovering over the dance floor. Our fingers remained linked. His touch made me feel safe.

"I'd like to believe romance does not pertain strictly to sensual pleasure," he said. "There is beauty in all things, not just people. Unfortunately, life is cruel. Roses grow tall and beautiful only to wither and rot soon after." He sighed heavily, his words came out slow and slightly slurred. "In the end, everyone and everything dies. As I have grown older, and wiser, I've come to understand the destructive tendencies of mankind. To live is to suffer and we are often willing to go to extremes to dull the ache. Some prefer to kill themselves with needles, or the slow death of smoking their lungs black. The gutsy and desperate throw themselves off the highest buildings and bridges…"

"Okay, that's enough alcohol for you." I swept up his last shot and drank it myself. "You're the saddest drunk in the history of ever."

"Drunk? No. But I am quite buzzed—"

A slender, manicured hand touched my partner's shoulder. A svelte redhead wearing a beige trench coat and a pair of shady sunglasses appeared. Hovering over him with an affable smile plastered on her narrow, rouged face, she said, "Agent Oliver Smith, is that you?"

"Indeed, it is." He shifted to gaze up at her. "You look awfully familiar, Ms…"

Her smile faded. "Ms. Rhodes, Dave Norton's secretary. You haven't been at work for a few days, and you weren't answering your phone. There were growing concerns and weird rumors circulating the office regarding your whereabouts, so I came to find you—"

"The agency sent a secretary to find me instead of a properly trained agent?" Smith blinked. "That is very odd."

"I wasn't 'sent' per se. This was a self-appointed mission, actually. You were missing and no one was doing anything about it. I'm so used to seeing you around the office," she laughed nervously. "I ran into your sister earlier today at the bureau, she told me your address—bless her heart, and your friend Detective Jackson directed me here. By the way, I am sorry about your father. He was taken too soon. With the amount of wealth he acquired, you would think he could afford better doctors."

I frowned. This lady was giving off serious creep vibes.

"Well then." Smith cleared his throat, seemingly at a loss for words. "Quite the sleuth you have proved to be. Perhaps you would be better suited as a private eye than a mere receptionist."

"You think so?" A flush of pink stained her cheeks. Her wide, luminous eyes glistened with adoration for him and it literally made me sick to my stomach. "I've been thinking about starting a career in the criminal justice field. I'd have to go back to school but maybe you can teach me the ropes sometime. We can be partners—"

A burning sensation stabbed at my chest. This chick was trying to impede on my territory. Smith belonged to me, and _only_ me. "He already has a partner." I draped my arm behind him, my fingertips brushing along his strong arm possessively. "Find your own, bitch."

She staggered backward and inhaled sharply. Instead of causing a scene, she turned and stormed off, high heels clicking loudly. _Good. Totally not gonna miss her. _

Twisting at the waist, he faced me and snapped, "Have you no manners? That was needlessly indecent—"

"I don't care," I replied. "She's totally crushing on you."

He immediately tensed. "A crush? On me?"

"Yes. And it's super obvious. No one's allowed to hit on you but me." I tapped my fingernails on the table, seriously annoyed by his cluelessness. "I bet you have plenty of girls salivating over you at work, don't you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does. It matters a lot. I don't like to share—"

"And you assume that I do? I have spent countless sleepless nights wishing you were mine. The reality is, I am your second choice and the pain of that realization is agonizing. Truly agonizing." He was calm, his voice low. No one looking from a distance would notice the conflict between us, but his grip on my hand tightened to a painful degree, and his gaze was frigid. "You can spare me your irrational jealousy. I have been sharing you for as long as I can remember, and I have yet to burden you even once with my indisposition regarding the subject."

My eyes stung, and there was a lump in the depths of my throat. His words were brutally honest, and I hated it. Was I the reason for his sadness? His pain? I've chosen Franklin over him time and time again in the past, and it didn't come as much of a surprise that he was hurting, the mounting jealousy and resentment must have punched a hole through his heart by now.

It was a big, glaring issue between us, and he refused to vocalize it, until now. He had every right to be angry. Miserable. At some point, I had to make a choice…

Oliver was my best friend, and I would never, ever intentionally cause him heartache. He deserved better than me. I loved him with all my heart, and I had to do what's right. I had to leave him, although I knew he wasn't going to make it easy. However, I had a trick up my sleeve.

The best way to push a man away? Be the biggest bitch you can be. No matter how bad it scarred him. No matter how bad the remorse gnaws at your heart afterward.

Pinching my lips together, I snatched my purse and pushed back from the table. "You know what, Smith? You're totally right. You have been sharing me, congratulations for being a fucking pushover, you deserve an award for putting up with being a side piece for so long. It was nice using you while it lasted, but I'm going home to my husband now. So fuck you. Deuces."

Momentarily stunned by my cruel, bratty remarks, I left him at the table. I rushed down the stairs and pushed through the crowd to the door, hoping and praying my words were nasty enough that he wouldn't dare come after me.

I crossed the street, climbed the steps of his building and shoved open the front door of his apartment in search of my baby. Cadillac turned off the TV and rose from the couch to greet me, Emma was in his arms. "Hooray, your mommy's home," he kissed her forehead. "Finally, I'm free—"

Smith stamped through the door after me. Ignoring Cadillac and Emma completely, he yanked me to him, his gloriously lean, beautifully proportioned body pinned me to the wall. His hand captured my throat, firm yet painless, the smoldering intensity of his piercing blue gaze found mine.

His lips hovering just above mine, I did my best to resist the surge of arousal flowing through me. "Let go of me, Smith."

He ignored my command, "You abandoned me. Why? Do I truly mean nothing to you?"

A heaviness settled in my chest from the immeasurable hurt in his tone. I instantly regretted every word. "Oliver—"

"How could you say such terrible, awful things as if you do not want me?"

"I don't want you." My words were weak, quiet, without resolve. I didn't believe myself as I said them, and I doubt he did either.

His gaze narrowed. He showed no signs of relenting. "You _need_ me, then."

He eyed me with a straightness that demanded nothing less than the truth. My mind spun with bewilderment. It was unlike him to challenge me like this. He was rarely stubborn or forceful and I had no clue how to handle it. Pushing him away only seemed to make him more determined to have me. His unceasing pursuit was frustrating but flattering too. It was nice to feel wanted by a man who preferred to be alone and needed no one but himself. He was a complex person and I had a guilty attraction to the mystery surrounding him.

But I wasn't going to give in that easy. My conscience wouldn't allow it. I swallowed deep. "We can't keep doing this. It's wrong."

"This bond we have, this pull…" He gestured at the space between us. "Yes, it may very well be reprehensible, unforgivable perhaps, but it is undeniable all the same. I know you feel it too. Morality and frivolous social constructs cannot keep us apart."

"Uh…" Sensing the tension between Smith and I, Cadillac nuzzled Emma's face against his shoulder, covering her eyes. "You guys are kinda worrying me. Is everything alright?"

Smith rose a palm toward Cadillac, the quick, stern gesture immediately silenced him. Raising a hand in mock surrender, our friend withdrew to the couch and resumed watching television with Emma.

My partner's determined gaze snapped back to me. "I cannot—I will not lose you." I felt the raging beat of his heart, his uneven breaths mingling with mine, proof that we were both impassioned. He projected a power and virility that was impossible to ignore and everything around me ceased to exist. My nipples hardened against his chest. The profound carnal effect his closeness had on me was alarming. I was falling deeper into his spell, the intoxicating scent of his skin graced my senses and left me breathless.

The alcohol in my veins were working in his favor. There was a wickedness in me that wanted to explore his body and take everything it had to offer.

I made one last ditch effort to resist the temptation. I kissed his neck, my tongue traced a wildly throbbing vein in his throat. "If you want me, make me yours," I dared him, confident he'd shrink away from my sexual advances like usual.

Except, he didn't. Not this time.

His mouth seized mine with urgent passion. My eyelids fluttered closed as he brushed his firm, soft lips back and forth over mine. I melted into him, my body going lax as I gave into the pleasure he offered. His hand plunged into my hair, the mind-blowing intensity of his possessive kisses weakened my knees. If it weren't for the strong grip he had on my behind, I probably would had hit the floor by now.

Once his arms enveloped me, I mustered the strength to hook my legs around his waist. He whisked me to the bedroom in a hurry. His mouth didn't leave mine for a second as he kicked the door closed. Tenderly, he lowered me onto the mattress, his dexterous hands worked off my blouse and bra; then he cupped at my breasts, kneading them with delicate, rhythmic squeezes.

His touch ignited a heat in my veins. I tore open the buttons of his shirt, ridding him of the bothersome fabric that obstructed my view of his impeccably chiseled, godlike abdomen. He rolled my sensitive nipples between his fingers and began to tug impatiently at the waistband of my jeans. I rose my hips, helping him remove my clothing.

He broke the kiss to give my breasts his full attention, drawing one nipple at a time into his mouth while he caressed the other with his hand. Sweat misted my skin, heat warmed me to the core. He licked and suckled until I was squirming beneath him with an aching need for more.

"Oliver…"

He rose at my pleading tone, clutched my panties and pulled them down. "Your tubes are tied."

I managed a smile. "You remembered."

"Of course. I try to retain your ramblings to the best of my ability, no matter how insignificant they may be at times."

"Whatever, jerk." I reached up to unbuckle his belt. "Just fuck me already—"

"Patience, love. Good things come to those who wait." He tapped my hand away, his eyes dark as they swept over my naked body. "Is this what you wanted all along?" His thumbs flicked lightly over my rigid nipples. "Were you punishing me earlier for making you wait?"

A shiver moved through me. I felt way too vulnerable under his scrutiny. "I'm sorry for leaving you at the bar and saying those mean things. I need you."

"And you will have me." He pushed a hand between my legs and my thighs fell open eagerly for him. I was aroused and feverish, my breasts heavy and hypersensitive from his unrelenting teasing. His admiring gaze glided down my body to where he parted me with his fingers. "You are beautiful, love. And awfully wet for me too—I am flattered."

He slid a finger into me. I gasped, the vulnerability of being spread open and fingered by my fully clothed partner was near intolerable. His thrusts were gentle and unhurried, and as much as I wanted his cock, I appreciated that he was taking his time with me.

"You will tell me how you want to be pleased, Tracey, and I will oblige." He pulled out and pushed back in with two fingers. A moan escaped me. Smith had a long list of talents. Apparently, satisfying me was one of them. "I will learn your body from head to toe, and all the different ways I can make you come for me. You will be entranced by the plethora of sensation I will offer you, so thoroughly possessed by me, there will be no separation between us."

"Jesus, Oliver." His dark promises drove me crazy with lust, my hips circling restlessly against his thrusting fingers. In that moment, he owned me. I belonged to him.

"I will scandalize you and you will enjoy every moment of our delightful transgressions. Do you understand me, love? Are you willing to give your body to me?"

"_Yes_." My words snapped out so desperately, I couldn't recognize my own voice. The sensuality of his devilishly refined tone had sparked a searing need in me so primal, I thought I'd spontaneously combust if I didn't climax soon. "Oliver—"

"Hush now. I'll take care of you." The pad of his thumb stroked my clit in delicate circles. "Look into my eyes when you come for me, my darling."

Everything tightened inside me, and the tension steadily mounted from the rhythmic motion of his fingers gliding in and out as he massaged my clit.

I rode his fingers without shame, my gaze locked to his, riveted by the immense, unique beauty he emitted. His arms were precisely cut, toned, coursing with veins that looked both brutal and hot as hell. The silky ringlets of blonde that cascaded over his forehead added a hint of boyish charm to the strong, sculpted planes of his face. He panted, his face austerely handsome and flushed with desire for me and I've done nothing but react helplessly to his touch.

Our gazes locked, I slapped a hand over my own mouth to muffle the cries of ecstasy that spilled from my lips once I climaxed.

Blissful sensations curled through me like a tidal wave. Dazed, I closed my eyes, and the heat of his body came down on me. "Do you need more?" His seductive whisper was barely audible with the amount of blood rushing in my ears.

I was limp, boneless, but still aching and empty, as if the orgasm he just gave me only stirred my craving rather than appeasing it. "Yes. Please, Olly."

I heard him fumble with his belt buckle and unzip his fly. Instinctively, my hands reached out to him. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with such a violent, abrupt swiftness, I trembled. Unnerved, my eyes flew open. "Hey, what the hell—"

"I need control," he said in a breathy rush. "Without it, I-I cannot do this."

"And I can't _not_ touch you."

He exhaled with agitation before releasing me. The moment I placed a hand to his chest, he flinched as if he had been poked with a cattle prod. I gazed into his now wet eyes and saw something very unsettling lurking in the crystal blue depths. Something volatile. Something painful.

He was fickle about sex and I had no clue why. Something terrible must of happened to him to make him this way, I couldn't think of any other reason he'd behave so strangely. He had secrets, things he wasn't telling me. Maybe those things were better off unsaid.

I tried to soothe him in the gentlest tone possible. "Are you okay? Do you wanna talk about it?"

Smith remained silent, his muscles rigid, hands fisting the sheets with white-knuckled force. His gaze was blank, distant, and I wasn't sure if he was even listening. He had retreated somewhere deep within his thoughts.

My heart breaking for him, I cupped his cheeks. "Don't be afraid of me. I'd never, _ever_ hurt you. You know that, right?"

He blinked out of his trance, watching me with a renewed interest. "Yes—yes, of course," his voice softened, the crown of his thick cock nudged my core. "Are you ready for me?"

I nodded. Hesitantly, I held onto his shoulders, very light and careful not to startle him. "Is it okay for me to touch you here?"

"You may." His forearms pressed against my biceps, he pinned me in place. Slowly, he filled me inch by tantalizing inch. He was hot, big, and hard as stone, and I could do nothing more than writhe beneath him from the intensity. I grinded my teeth, the total domination he had over my body was strange but fiercely erotic. I couldn't touch or kiss him the way I wanted to, so I clenched around him instead, relishing the delicious agony of being penetrated and exquisitely stretched by the most suave, elegant and captivating man I've ever laid eyes on.

He pulled out to the tip, his entire body hardening, arms straining. Abdomen tightening, he sank into me again, harder. I cried out, shaking, stuffed past almost the point of endurance.

"You feel…" A primitive groan slipped between his clenched teeth. "Phenomenal."

"You're big," I complimented, struggling to accommodate to his length.

"Ah, I was hoping you'd think so." He grew very still, his forehead nuzzled mine. "Shall I proceed?"

The bite of discomfort gradually eased, and I trembled with anticipation, pleasure spreading from where we were so intimately connected. "I'm ready, Olly."

His hold on my body strengthening, he started fucking me, nailing me to the bed, every stroke sent jolts of warm, molten pleasure rippling through me. It was amazing. Explosive. His lunges were unyielding, and every now and then he would swivel his hips to stroke a distinctly sensitive spot inside me that ached for attention the most. _God_, he felt so good.

I couldn't think straight, the scent of our sex and dripping sweat mixed with the rich undertones of his swoon-worthy cologne was to die for. An orgasm brewed inside me like a hurricane, everything tightened and squeezed. He cursed, curling a hand beneath my hip to grasp my behind. Fondling the plush curve of my rear, he lifted me at the perfect angle for his cock head to tantalize that same aching spot, over and over again…

Smith came suddenly, long and hard, shuddering, spurting into me just before I found my release. It was no surprise considering how long it's been since he's had sex, and the deep, inexplicably sexy noises he made as he unraveled on top of me made it all worth it. His grip on me did not falter as he pulled out, taking a short moment to regain his composure before shoving into me again.

I gasped, shaken by his quick recovery. He was still hard and ready for more, pounding me with a steadfast relentlessness suitable of a machine. Or a god. Maybe I should have been worried about the extent of his craving, but I wanted him just as badly. And I loved every snug, burning moment of him inside me. Soon enough, I was sobbing his name, climaxing once again in a fiery burst of pleasure, toes curling, the whirlwind of sensation thrumming through me magnified by his strict confinement of my body.

"_Tracey_…" Smith stiffened, eyes closed in pure euphoria as the clutching depths of my wet heat squeezed around him. "Yes, j-just like that. The things you do to me, love—do not stop."

My entire body pulsated and tingled in the aftermath. I struggled to keep my voice steady. "You'd have to make me come again."

He smirked. "I intend to do so as much as humanly possible."

He flipped me onto my side, restrained my wrists behind my back, and hooked my leg over his shoulder. Kneeling before me in this new, experimental position, he managed to sink balls-deep inside, and I was on the verge of tears from the overwhelming stimulation. His blunt thrusts resumed, his thumb rubbing my clit in leisurely circles. The ongoing ecstasy that wracked my body swept me somewhere far, far away where all mental function ceased to exist. He fucked me senseless, to the point of no guilt, no regret, no recollection of my marriage or vows. I was practically drooling, disoriented, coming again and again as this beautiful man possessed me in every way, shape, and form.

The things he did to me was scandalous. Forbidden. And I fell deeper in love with him anyway.

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**Thanks for reading guys! Leave a review, please! Your honest feedback is greatly appreciated. I put a LOT of work into this chapter, so I'm really dying to know what you guys think! Thank you so much for your ongoing support, see you next week!**


	13. Chapter 13

**I'm back with an update! Trigger warning: There is mentions of rape this chapter. You've been warned...**

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I woke to the soft light of the dawn sky through the double hung windows. Sprawled on the bed alongside Smith, connected and close, my face was buried in the crook of his neck and his fingertips caressed the curve of my spine. His hair hung around his face, wavy and thick, looking even sexier sleep tousled. How long has he been awake? I trailed a path of lazy kisses along his throat.

"Why, hello there." He turned over, drawing me closer to him, his lips brushed over my forehead. "How did you sleep, love?"

"Good. Better than I have in a while." My knees felt weak, and I was still pleasantly aching from the explosive sex we had last night. I wouldn't trade it for the world though. He fucked me with a finesse and stamina that seemed unreal. The enticing memory of his sweaty, smokin' hot body on top of mine, making love to me with reckless abandon…it served as a powerful aphrodisiac. If he was in the mood for another round, I wouldn't mind _at all_.

My fingers toyed with the strands of his luxuriant hair. "How did you sleep?"

"Quite well, thank you. Better than I have in my entire life." He chuckled, the sunlight streaming through the window gave a striking glow to his breath-taking face, making him even more of a captivating, enthralling sight. I had trouble taking it in at times.

"So, about last night," I beamed at him. "You were amazing."

"Was I?" He frowned. "Worry not for my ego, love. You can tell me the truth—"

"_I am_ telling you the truth." I smoothed his furrowed brow with my thumbs. He was the most talented man I knew and had no right to be insecure. There were really no words to describe how incredible he performed last night, so I settled with, "You were good. Like, really good."

A smile pulled at his lips. "You mean the world to me, and I intend to treat you as such. All your desires, love, are mine to fulfill." He kissed the palm of my hand.

As much as I'd like to go along with the fantasy, I had a husband. _Franklin_. A hot wave of shame washed over me. I did my best to ignore it. It was too late to turn back, no point in mulling over it now. The damage was done. Replaying the hours of intimacy Smith and I shared in my head, through all the passion and pleasure, there was something about it that bothered me. Scared me.

The heart-wrenching, deep-rooted pain I saw in his eyes right before he began screwing me to sweet, blissful oblivion…it needed to be addressed. "Can I talk to you about something?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "What is it?"

I swept the hair back from his eyes and met his gaze squarely. "How do you feel about me?" Once he opened his mouth to speak, I pressed a finger to his lips. "Think before you answer. I want the truth."

He swallowed hard, his eyes searched my face in silent contemplation. Lowering my hand, he said, "I feel exposed, vulnerable. I feel as if you are unraveling me. I am closer to you than anyone I have ever known."

It didn't feel that way. Sure, I was learning him bit by bit, but there were still a crapload of stuff about him I didn't understand. We weren't strangers. We've known each other for a while, so why was he such a mystery to me? "I'm the vulnerable one here, Smith. Not you. Whenever I ask you anything about your personal life, or your past, you close up. You get evasive, and distant. Do you have trust issues? Is that what it is?"

His brows wrinkled in confusion. "What?"

"You're hiding things from me. I'm not as dumb as you think."

"That's rubbish," he argued, a sneer curled his lip. "You are not dumb. When the bloody hell did I say, or even imply such a thing?"

I sat up, needing the space. "You know about Franklin, my family, my past—all my skeletons are out of the closet in plain view to be seen, but I can't get the same courtesy in return from you."

He drew a deep breath. "Your honesty means the world to me, Tracey, but there are some things better off unsaid. Things I would like to forget. They are not important."

"So that's how you justify lying to me? _Really?_"

I waited a few beats for him to respond, to say something, anything. I would've settled for 'I'm not ready to talk about it', or 'we can talk about it later'—either answer woulda been fine if it was genuine. Instead he remained silent, his face contracted into an emotionless mask, a habitual action done so effortlessly, it was like second nature to him.

After the night we shared, I thought things would be different between us. That he would be more open with me. Apparently not.

I threw off the covers and walked away.

"Tracey!" Smith went after me, his arms circled my waist, he pressed my back to his chest. With his lips in my hair, he uttered, "Come back to bed with me, love. Let's talk. Please."

"No more lies," I demanded. "It's a deal-breaker for me."

"Forgive me, all I ask is for one more chance." Fingers intertwined, he led me back to bed. "I have two hours 'til work, that should be enough time. Before we begin, if I am to share my truth with you in its entirety, I'll need a drink. Scotch?"

I shook my head. "Wine, please."

"Classy." He left the room and returned a short while later with our drinks. Wine glasses in hand, we sat cross-legged on the bed. His gaze was fixed on me, startlingly direct. "I understand you have questions. Ask, and I shall answer to the best of my ability."

"Let's start with your past," I said. "Tell me everything."

"Very well. If you don't mind, I will make a conscious effort to leave out the uneventful bits, for both our sake. I'd hate to be a bore." He took a sip of his Scotch. "As you already know, I was born and raised in Britain, and many of my years were spent in the lap of luxury. My father was a successful businessman, and my mother a prominent lawyer in a flourishing law firm."

"Your parents didn't make a living off robbery, prostitution, and extortion?" I grinned. "Lame."

"Very lame, indeed. The Smiths are not nearly as exciting as the De Santas," he smiled weakly. "Anyhow, Mother and Father's blind pursuit of wealth held greater significance to them than the welfare of their children. Too preoccupied with their bloody business trips and meetings, they rarely had time for my sisters and I. They hired an au pair to watch over us instead."

"How did that go?"

"Not well." The smile faded from his eyes, his mouth. "Being the youngest of the flock, my older sisters found me to be nothing more than a nuisance—a senseless, minuscule pest to be avoided at all costs. The au pair, Amelia," he swallowed deep, "seemed to be the only being in that godforsaken mansion who cared about me."

"Amelia…" I thought back to where I heard that name. "Your sister mentioned her before, right?"

His frown deepened. "Yes—to torture me with dreadful memories, no doubt."

"Why? What happened between you and the au pair? Did she do something?"

Pain glittered in his eyes, the very same hurt from last night had emerged again. He bowed his head, hiding his stricken gaze and the tears brimming on his eyelashes. Something was tearing him apart from the inside out. A dry sob burned my throat. I hated seeing him like this.

I swallowed my wine in a gulp, set the glass aside, and then took his hand in mine. "You don't have to talk about it. If you're not ready, I totally understand—"

"No. You deserve to know." He blinked away the tears and looked up at me through the messy curtain of blonde hair over his eyes. "I lost my virginity to Amelia at the age of thirteen. She was thirty."

Blood pounded in my ears as I absorbed the stunning news. "You're kidding."

"It happened frequently," he went on. "Eventually, I gained the courage to tell my father. He was furious, the petulant schmuck claimed I was a liar, an 'attention seeking brat'. The following day, our cat died of 'mysterious' causes and was laid to rest. It was no coincidence, however. My family was easily fooled, but not I."

"Jeez," I cringed. "That bitch did it to shut you up."

"It worked." He gave a taut, self-deprecating laugh. "I thought she was going to end me next. The gut-wrenching uncertainty loomed over my head like a dark cloud. It was awful. Truly awful."

I wiped away the single tear that trickled down his cheek. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

"No child does. Months and months later, Amelia gives birth to a baby—my child." His voice grew hoarse, his hands shook with terrible anxiety. I squeezed them, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone. That I'm here for him. "My daughter, Phoebe—a living, breathing reminder of my suffering. There are some days where I love her, but most of the time, I cannot stand the sight of her face. She resembles her mother so much…"

It took a crapload of willpower to stop my jaw from dropping. Unsure of what to say or do, I watched the most well composed man I knew break down before me, shoulders quaking, expression tight, the deep-rooted sorrow he held inside was carved in merciless lines across his face. He wept silently.

From what I've seen, Smith was a man who could handle just about anything. The reason he could look death in the eye and remain unfazed was because he's survived hell already. The things Amelia put him through was sickening. No wonder he was reluctant to share his past. It all made sense now. I felt like crap for pushing him to speak on it.

A small pit of hopelessness opened in my stomach. I've never dealt with a situation like this before. Physical wounds were easy, all it took were bandages and disinfectant most of the time. A trip to the hospital if it was really bad. But emotional wounds to _this _extent? That was a totally different story. It complicated things. What could I possibly do to make it better? To ease the pain he's been living with for years?

No wonder he'd get uncomfortable whenever I threw myself at him. Ever so often, I'd get blinded by my own desire and touch him _suggestively_. The way he would tense beneath the palm of my hands—I thought he was just being coy, or exercising self-restraint, I was a married woman after all. Clearly there was more to it than that. In my defense, he was too damn sexy for his own good, but still. I should've been more careful and attentive with him. He deserved that.

I cupped his tear-streaked face and pressed my forehead to his. He shot me a withering glance. My heart turned over in response. His eyes were such a vivid, stormy blue whenever he cried, wet and twinkling like the ocean beneath the pale moonlight. He was beautiful in both his sadness and times of glee.

I wanted to stop the hurt. That fucking pedophile of an au pair had power over him, and I hated it. She was the reason he had been alone all his life, no love, no romance. I shuddered inwardly at the thought of her dirty hands touching an innocent child, _my _future partner, _my _best friend, _my _lover, and I wanted that bitch dead. "Please tell me that whore is rotting in prison."

"My mother managed to piece together the truth not long after the birth. Amelia was sentenced to ten years behind bars, however, that time was greatly reduced due to good behavior." Smith gave me a quick peck on the lips and pulled away, wiping at his tears with his sleeve. "And now Father is dead, his funeral to be on the very same soil Amelia walks freely on, living her life in peace and serenity as if she has done nothing wrong." He opened a nearby drawer and grabbed a flask of what I assumed to be more alcohol. He tipped his head back and chugged it.

Looked like my bad drinking habits were finally starting to rub off on him. Intoxication made for a great coping mechanism.

Sagging against the wall, he sulked miserably, "Where is my justice? The silver-lining for what I endured? The lesson learned? All that remains is agony and memories I cannot get out of my head."

"We should kill her," I blurted out, and then bit my tongue. _Jeez, maybe I am crazy like the rest of my family. _

He smirked at my suggestion, his voice deepened and grew menacing. "I've dreamt and fantasized about revenge for years. I am a boy no longer. I could break her so easily, to hear the satisfying crack of her brittle bones beneath my fingers… it would be so delightful. She deserves death, I am entitled to vengeance!" His angry outburst shook the walls. Fists clenched and muscles tensed, he blew out a breath between his teeth. "No, no—what am I saying? _Murder?_ That is absurd! I cannot, it would do no good. There would be momentary gratification perhaps, but my circumstances would remain unchanged."

Thrusting a hand into his hair, he paced the room, conflicted, entranced in a battle within himself. His conscience versus his demons. Smith's erratic behavior didn't scare me, however. I've seen _way_ worse.

He stopped mid-stride to glance at me. "Would it truly be such a bad thing if we were to, well, _remove_ her? What is life but unavoidable death? All beginnings have an end. It is inevitable, is it not? We would simply be speeding up the process."

"I've never been to Britain before, so I'm totally down to go with you," I suggested jokingly, giggling. "Promise me we'll go sightseeing before we gut her."

He grinned briefly without any lingering trace of his former animosity. "You are awful."

"We both are." I pat the mattress. "Come here."

He came at my call, sitting down comfortably next to me. I pushed back a wayward strand of blonde hair, and massaged his temple in slow circles, planting a small kiss on the beauty mark that resided there. "Is that why you left Britain?" I asked. "To get away from her?"

"I was afraid of what I might do," he replied. "So I directed my rage elsewhere—Los Santos, a city teeming with senseless criminals deserving of my wrath. Before arriving here, I spent quite a bit of time in Carcer, purging the murderous human filth that dwelled in the shadows. Los Santos' crime rate pales in comparison, the atrocities I've witnessed there…" He stilled as if struck with a sudden fatigue. "It was _dreadful_. A warzone. Absolute pandemonium. The degenerates there had little to no concern for human life whatsoever."

I winced. "Isn't Carcer the city that filmed a sick game show about death row inmates and gangsters murdering each other?"

"Indeed, it was."

"Is that where you learned how to kick ass? And kill people with spoons and spatulas?"

I drew a laugh out of him. "I suppose so. Unlike the average dim-witted, rebellious teenager, I spent a great deal of time studying criminology and picking fights with punching bags. I considered joining the military, but I strived to be a good father. Better than my own. But here I am, following in Daddy Dearest's footsteps anyway, my daughter thousands of miles away being raised by someone else entirely. My eldest sister." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Oh dear, I am a horrible person."

"You're not a horrible person," I said. "A crappy dad, sure, but you can fix that. All it takes is effort. You have to show her you care."

"Perhaps." He set his flask aside and laid back on the bed, his head propped on my lap. I played with his hair, braiding it in loose plaits. He didn't seem to mind. "Phoebe can be difficult. She firmly believes I am the sole reason for every misfortune she's ever endured, that I am nothing but trouble. The last time we spoke, she insisted that I reveal the identity of her mother. She demanded to know the truth and swore up and down that she could handle it."

"Did you tell her?"

"How could I? She is only a child, although she may not believe it so. She did not take my objection to share our family secrets well."

"She's gonna find out eventually, but now isn't the right time. If I were you, I'd wait until she's older. _Much_ older."

"Agreed," he sighed. "To learn of such darkness, carried out by her own mother…"

I smiled sadly. "It's gonna mess with her head pretty bad."

"Undoubtedly. Anyhow, that is the morbid story of my life in a nutshell. I hope you can now understand my reluctance to tell you in the past." He turned his head to trail a path of kisses up my wrist. "There are secrets between us no longer."

All those times I walked in on him at his office, alone and sulking, finally made sense. "Okay, I have one more question. Something I gotta know."

"And that is?"

"Why the effing hell does your sister hate you so much?"

"After the birth of my daughter, Mary and I became very close. Being a child myself, I knew nothing of raising a baby. She helped me with Phoebe. When I left Britain and took my daughter with me, she grew resentful. I abandoned her." His brows drew together in a scowl. "Perhaps I was wrong for taking such drastic measures, but what's done is done. Besides, I had a terrible grudge. A seething hatred. My family's neglect and utter disregard for my safety was the reason this bloody mess occurred in the first place."

"Mary's been hanging around the bureau a lot," I said. "It's kinda weird, right? Clearly you don't want anything to do with her, so why doesn't she go home? Why is she still in Los Santos?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, and quite frankly, I do not care. If I ignore her long enough, perhaps she will disappear. That is hopeful thinking, however. She can be quite stubborn."

"Yeah. No kidding." I stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry, Oliver. About everything."

"You have nothing to apologize for." He squeezed my hand affectionately. "Would you fancy a shower with me, love?"

I nodded eagerly. "Yes! Well, only if you want to. I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with just to make me happy—"

"Nonsense. I would not propose such a thing if it caused me discomfort." He reached up to clutch my chin in his warm hand. "There are no words to describe how incredibly fond I am of you, Tracey. I am vulnerable with you, and _only_ you. Do you understand, sweetheart? You are everything to me."

He rose and pulled me up along with him. I tingled, his charming, loving words sent a rush of adrenaline through me. Giddy with adoration, and pure appreciation for my loyal partner, and best friend with benefits as of last night, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him to me the tightest I could. His clean-shaven cheek pressed against mine, I smothered him with playful, child-like affection. "Smith, I looooove yoooou!"

He ambushed my face with a frantic rush of kisses. "I adore you more. Your love pales in comparison to mine—"

"Shut up, weenie." I spun around him and clung to his back like a monkey, my legs enclosed around his waist. "C'mon, c'mon, it's shower time!"

He smiled, his mood buoyant as he shuffled to the bathroom with me in tow. "Your energy in the wee hours of morning is something to be admired, love."

Our shower together was luxuriously hot and consisted of a whole lot cuddling and snuggling as the steamy water trickled down on us. I was extra gentle washing his hard body, carefully avoiding the scars that were still in the process of healing. He did the same, and I loved the feel of his palms gliding tenderly over me. Once we were both clean and wrapped up in a towel, he fisted my hair and crushed me to him. His lips moved over mine, our tongues stroked and dipped in sensuous exploration. The kiss was fiercely passionate, my hands splayed over his shoulders to keep myself afloat.

Then he drew away, his gaze narrowed on my knotted, wet strands. "May I?" he asked, grabbing the hairdryer plugged into the wall.

"Heck yes," I smiled.

I trusted Smith with my hair. He had untangled, parted, and straightened my mane more than once, and always did so with care. It was nice to be pampered. His strong, adept hands were capable of such tenderness. I looked in the mirror once he was done, and practically squealed. "Oh my god!" With a wide, bubbly smile of approval, I brushed my fingers over the double French braid flowing over my shoulders. It was meticulously neat. In that moment, I was wildly in love with him. Jeez, was there anything he _didn't _know how to do? "When the heck did you learn how to braid?"

"Did you forget I am a single father? I had to learn." He kissed the top of my head. "Now get dressed, love. We have a long day ahead of us."

I turned to face him, my arms slid around his waist. "Are we resuming the case today?"

"Yes. We have wasted far too much time already."

I nodded and gave him one last kiss before reluctantly pulling away. Once I was ready, I found him by the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in hand, fully dressed for work in his elegant black suit and tie. A warm smile touched his lips the moment he laid eyes on me.

The short time we spent apart felt like forever. I greeted him with a hug, my body pressed snug against his. He smelled divine, and I loved how attractively his fine tailored suit fit his powerfully lean body. I was tempted to run my fingers through the wet silk of his freshly showered hair, but I'd ruin all the time and effort he put into styling it. His carefully trimmed strands were combed straight back, lightly gelled. The curly ringlets of blonde dangling freely over his forehead added a hint of casual charm to his look, the perfect mix between professionalism and laid-back.

My body heated under his regard. He looked hotter than usual this morning. There were no dark circles under his eyes, and the hurt in his gaze was gone. At least for now. Inhaling the wonderful scent of his aftershave, I sighed happily. "You look good today."

"You look better." He set his tea on the counter, his arms enveloped my waist.

Cadillac strolled into the kitchen with Emma half-asleep in his arms. He yawned, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. "I hate you both," he said, passing me my baby. "I'm always down to be a wingman or whatever but leaving me to babysit the entire night while you two bang each other? Not cool."

Smith laughed sheepishly, a playful, boyish smile very at odds with the mature, masculine sexuality of his body. "Forgive us, I hope we did not disrupt your sleep."

"You did," he grumped. "Multiple times."

I snorted. "Thanks, Cadillac. We love you."

"Yeah, and I still hate you both." He yanked open the refrigerator door like he owned the place and started chugging down a carton of orange juice.

Smith took his side. "I have a proposition for you."

He shook his head, shoving the carton back in the fridge. "No, Olly. I'm done with babies, man. I'm done with you. I'm done with your girlfriend. I'm done with everything right now. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to work."

Cadillac turned for the door. Smith swerved in front of him. "Might I have a moment of your time? I have an offer you cannot refuse, I assure you."

Cadillac crossed his arms over his chest. "Alright, let's hear it then."

"Otto's day of reckoning has arrived. Aid us in his pursuit, and you shall have the honor of arresting and interrogating him yourself. And who knows? Maybe you'll crack the cold case regarding Nancy's whereabouts. Such a feat would give your career quite the boost."

Cadillac eyed Smith warily. "Sounds like you need me."

"Indeed. Sandy Shores is more dangerous than I expected. The civilians are hostile to outsiders, and I assume they will be even more so toward you."

"Yeah. They ain't gonna be too happy to see me—a black cop."

"Local county law enforcement will seek to oppose us as well. It will not be pleasant. Conflict is inevitable." Smith clasped Cadillac's shoulder. "I need you, friend. With you at my side, this suicide mission may actually be possible."

"Shit, Olly, is it really that bad over there?"

"It's pretty bad," I added, feeding Emma her bottle.

Cadillac went silent, mulling over the issue for a moment. "Okay, count me in. If we're going to war with a town of angry country boys, I need time to gear up and recruit an unit—a couple NOOSE agents sound good?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but sure," Smith said. "You may bring the heavily armed, trigger happy buffoons, considering you can keep them on a tight leash. We need the suspect alive."

"If it's as bad over there as you guys are describing, we're gonna need some pissed-off dudes with guns on our side. I'll call you when I'm ready." Cadillac's gaze shifted to me. "Tracey, when you get a chance, me and you need to talk. In private. It's urgent, sweets."

I swallowed. "Okay."

Cadillac made sure to give Smith some brotherly love before leaving, locking my partner in a rather painful looking bear hug. What did he have to tell me that was so important? And why didn't he feel comfortable saying it in front of Smith?

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**Thanks for reading guys! Like always, your feedback means the world to me, so leave a review please! I love you all so much, see you next week!**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm back with an update, one day early too! I hope you guys enjoy this one! Let's get to reading! (Btw, it's in our girl Tracey's pov)**

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We parked the van on the edge of a mountainous hiking trail overlooking the small desert town of Sandy Shores. From the higher elevation, we had a bird's eye view of every single dingy bar, restaurant, rundown building, and rusty mobile home that dotted the barren land. Otto's Auto Parts was just down the dusty ridge and was open for business. The suspect was bound to be inside.

However, there was a problem. There were burly, tough looking dudes in leather biker jackets standing guard outside the store. They were armed with an assortment of rifles, and knives, and outnumbered us greatly. What were they doing here? No clue, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna ask. Judging by the scowls on their rugged, weathered faces, they didn't seem the talkative types.

There was a depiction of an eagle on their jackets. The motif looked familiar! Otto wore the same symbol in the pictures Smith showed me over coffee at Bean Machine weeks ago.

Smith was right, Otto was affiliated with the notorious Lost MC biker gang. They were protecting him. Those armed goons were nowhere to be found during our last visit, and I doubt they were any good for promoting his business. Did they know we were coming?

I was skeptical about the three NOOSE agents joining us for our mission, but it seemed like we were going to need them. Dressed from head to toe in black tactical gear and the veil of balaclavas, they were an expressionless, quiet bunch. Every movement they made, however slight, was in a tight, unified formation. While Smith and Cadillac did reconnaissance of the surrounding area, the agents stood behind them, completely still like tree stumps. The only indication that they were actually human were their wary, watchful eyes.

Buzzards circled the sky and prickly tumbleweeds skid over the desolate roads. This place was like an oven, the incessant stream of merciless sunlight had me sweating nonstop. The boys seemed to have the scouting all under control, so I retreated to the air-conditioned van. I kicked the heavy duffel bags strewn across the floor out of my way and perched myself comfortably in the corner, my legs stretched. I chugged a bottle of water, my throat dry as sandpaper from the lack of moisture in the air.

I stared at the duffel bag with Smith's name etched across it in blue marker. What did he have in there? It wouldn't hurt to have a look. My curiosity getting the better of me, I unzipped it and peeked inside.

There were knives, _a lot_ of knives, all secured in various holsters. Ammo magazines. Wired earpieces. Lockpicks. Handcuffs and zip ties. Gloves, ammonia, and bleach, probably for his vigilante side job. He had to cover his tracks somehow…

I frowned. _I really hope he doesn't get caught. _

Buried beneath the pile of murder tools and industrial strength cleaning solutions was a crumpled photo. Of Franklin and I at our wedding. Where did he get this? There was something written on the back of it with red ink.

**_ 50k ea._**

**_ Dead or Alive._**

My pulse quickened. Fifty-thousand? What the hell did that mean? Could there be a bounty on me and my husband? How did Smith get his hands on it? Why hasn't he mentioned anything about it? I don't understand—

The double doors swung open and Cadillac climbed in. I shoved the picture in my pocket and scrambled to my rightful corner of the van. "What'cha doing, sweets?" he asked, shirtless and already oiled up, a precaution he always took before a deadly mission.

"Nothing," I played it cool, twiddling my thumbs innocently as any non-suspicious person would.

"Damn, that air-conditioner feels hella good!" Grinning, he plopped down next to me. "You look nervous." He nudged me playfully. "Are you scared?"

"I'm not scared of anything," I countered.

"Not even of this?" He opened his palm, revealing a fat, slimy, green…_thing._

_It was moving! Gross! _I jerked away from it. "Ew! What is that thing? It's ugly. Is it poisonous?"

"Relax, it's just a caterpillar. Poor guy is harmless." Very carefully, he placed the bug on his thigh, letting it crawl around in mindless circles. _Yuck_. "I found him trying to cross the road and I figured it'd be best if I pick 'em up before some shithead runs him over. One day he's gonna grow up to be one fine ass Sphinx moth."

"I prefer butterflies."

"Everyone does. Moths have a bad reputation 'cause they work the night shift, but hey, somebody's gotta do it. Flowers need to be pollinated during the after-hours too." He stroked the caterpillar with the pad of his finger. "Did you know this little guy can eat enough to wipe out entire fields of wildflowers—"

"Stop it right there," I held up my palm. "I'm sure you have way more important things to do right now than give me a lesson on bugs."

"Shit, you're right. Sorry, I get carried away talking about the most random bullshit sometimes. It's a habit, you know, kinda hard to break. Anyway, it's important to establish a bond with your teammates, partners or whatever. At least, that's what the police rulebooks say. And uh, yeah…I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. Forget I said anything."

I giggled. "You seem a lot more nervous than I am."

"Yeah. Maybe just a little bit. I don't know shit about Blaine County, I feel really out of my element here." He reached into the pocket of his cargos and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a long drag, and immediately put it out right after. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"Don't tell Olly I'm smoking again, will ya? He'll lose his shit. I don't need that type of drama in my life right now."

I took a sip of my water. "What is it with him and smoking, anyway? Why does he hate it so much?"

"I'm pretty sure his parents being chain smokers has something to do with it." He pointed to his duffel bag lying on the opposite corner of the van, beside his ballistic shield. "Hey, sweets, can you pass that over to me? Be gentle."

I rolled my eyes. "Do I look like your maid?"

My reaction seemed to amuse him, a half smile crossed his face. "Do I look like a babysitter? No, but I still do it for you anyway. Cut me some slack."

A heaviness settled in my chest. I fetched him his bag and he began rummaging through it. "Hey, I don't mean to seem ungrateful. You've been really good with Emma—"

Cadillac eyed me closely, his smile faded. "Tracey, we're friends, right?"

"Yeah, we are."

"Good." He pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the depths of his bag and started loading it with red shotshells. "Olly and I…we trust you. And trust isn't an easy thing for us—for _him_ especially. He's really into you, and that's good and all, I think he needs someone like you to keep his head straight, to keep him from going under. There's a lot of good cops that eat their own bullet. This job takes a lot out of you, it's fuckin' traumatizing."

"It is," I frowned.

He went on, "Olly's mental health is a huge concern of mine. We're partners, and if his head is fucked up, I can't trust him on the field. That's where you come in. You're a problem."

"A problem?" _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

"You're married. I know how this ends. Olly might not see it, but I do." He sighed. "I don't mean to give you a hard time, sweets, but he's been through enough tragedy in his life already. He's barely holding on by a string now. Losing you might be what makes him snap and I can't afford to lose my partner."

Tears clouded my eyes at the thought of it. "He won't lose me. I promise you he won't. _I love him_."

"I'm glad. I really hope you mean that." Cadillac glanced at me, his expression softened. "Hey, don't cry. Am I being an ass? I'm sorry." He offered me a fresh package of assorted fruit chews from his pocket. "Truce?"

"Truce!" I ripped it open and threw a handful in my mouth.

"You planning on sharing though, right? Save some for me—"

"No." I crammed the rest of it in my purse. "It's mine. No take backs."

"Well, can you at least help me gear up?" He drew his tactical gear from his bag, tugged on his compression shirt and then his heavy, bulletproof body armor. I helped him strap on his elbow and knee pads, all while keeping a safe distance from the insect creeping up his vest.

The doors opened and Smith hopped inside. He cringed at the sight of the huge bug. "Goodness—what is that green monstrosity?"

Cadillac swooped the creepy crawler into his hands. "What's the big deal? He's just a caterpillar. He doesn't sting, he doesn't bite—"

"Your fascination with insects is duly noted, friend. Now be rid of it, please. We move out in five."

"Alright. Give me a min' to find a nice bed of nectar plants for the little guy, and I'll be ready to roll."

"Very well. Do not dally."

"Nah, I'll be quick." Cadillac stood up hastily and swerved for the door, his heavy gear clinking with every step.

Smith fanned the air with his hand in disgust. "What is that awful smell? Has someone been smoking?"

"Nope," I lied. "Maybe one of the rednecks around here is burning leaves or something."

"I suppose that is a possibility." He knelt before me, his eyes searched mine with tender concern. "How are you doing, love?"

"I'm okay." I gravitated to him, my fingers hooked around the sturdy straps of his hard-plated, desert camouflaged vest. "I'm ready to get this over with so we can go home."

"Yes. Hopefully all goes well and according to plan, and we are back in Los Santos before supper." He cradled my cheeks with his warm, nicely manicured hands. "However, we would be fools not to prepare for the worst. Let's get you suited up, my love. Come, dear." He rose to his feet, pulling me gently up with him.

Smith fastened a gun holster to my hip and helped me into a weighty black vest. I wrinkled my nose. "It's heavy," I complained. "I don't like it."

"It is necessary for your safety, sweetheart. I worry for you. It will give me some peace of mind knowing you are protected." He handed me a pistol and a loaded magazine. "Can I trust you to use this responsibly?"

"Heck yeah, you can." I loaded the magazine into the grip and placed the weapon in my holster. With the combined teachings of both Franklin and Smith, I knew how to handle myself in a gunfight. _Kinda_. I could hit the targets at the gun range pretty easily. Shooting bad guys shouldn't be any different, right?

My partner gave my hand an affectionate squeeze before pulling away to scour through his duffel bag for gear. Should I ask him about the picture I found? No, now wasn't a good time. We'd have plenty of time to talk after the mission.

Cadillac skipped into the van, and grabbed his towering, state-of-the-art ballistic shield. "The NOOSE dudes are already in position. They're waiting on us, let's get this party started."

Smith took the wheel and started the car. "Remember to remain vigilant, follow the plan, and this should all go smoothly."

We slowly descended the dusty hiking path, our vehicle jerked unsteadily over the rocky terrain. "And if things don't go according to plan?" I asked.

"We improvise," Cadillac pulled a dark balaclava over his face and then put on a riot helmet. Carrying a shotgun in his right hand, a massive shield in the other, combined with the crapload of bulky armor fixed to his strapping body—he made for a terrifying sight. It took an astounding amount of strength to be able to move about freely with that kind of weight on his shoulders. I didn't envy the bad guys who had to face him.

Smith drifted to a stop at the end of the dirt path, across the street from the auto shop. He glanced at Cadillac. "Give them hell, my friend."

I touched his shoulder. "Be careful."

Cadillac flashed me a reassuring smile. "You too, hon. See you soon."

He climbed out of the car, and cautiously approached the thugs outside the store in a defensive crouch, his shield raised. The goons stiffened and exchanged confused glances at one another. Then, the most hulking of the gang, a gray-haired, coarse-faced man, lifted his rifle and exclaimed, "The pigs are here! Kill 'em!"

They unleashed a hail of gunfire on Cadillac, but every bullet glanced off his tower-like bulwark. The three NOOSE agents lunged from the brush bordering the road, executing the leather-clad gangsters with precise shots to the skull. They hit the ground with a _bump_, blood painted the dirt.

"Hostiles down," a hushed voice emerged from my earpiece, presumably one of the NOOSE agents. "Stay sharp, target is inside. Tossing a flash bang."

The agents drew black canisters from the pouches of their vests and lobbed them through the storefront window. There was a quick, bright flash, followed by agonized screaming. Cadillac kicked open the door and disappeared inside, the agents piled in behind him. More gunshots rent the air. There was a **_boom_**, the explosive force blew out the windows and a portion of the roof came crumbling down to the ground.

A strange silence descended over the desert. What the heck just happened?

"Andre?" Smith pressed a finger to his earpiece. "Andre, do you copy? Andre—"

"Fucking pigs!" Otto's lanky body slithered out the side window of the shop. His navy-blue mechanic jumpsuit stuck out like a sore thumb. "Y'all shoulda known better than to fuck with me!"

"Look!" I jammed a finger at Otto as he hopped onto a nearby motorcycle and peeled off. "He's right there!"

Cadillac bolted from the ruins of the store. Relief washed over Smith's face once he spotted his friend safe and sound. I opened the passenger door, and Cadillac dived inside. "Go! Go! Go! Get that motherfucker!"

Smith stomped on the gas and we shot forward on the open dirt road, tailing our suspect.

The bumpy high-speed chase had adrenaline pumping through my veins. I clung to the back of Smith's seat for balance. "What the heck happened back there, Cadillac? Where's the agents?"

"It's Andre," he corrected. "And the agents are dead. The place was booby-trapped with grenades." He raised his shield, revealing the shrapnel embedded in the plating. "We underestimated the little fucker."

"He is a crafty one, indeed," Smith said, his gaze narrowed into dark slits as we sped after Otto. "In the end, his efforts will prove futile. I will make sure of it."

"This is not going according to plan!" I blurted.

Cadillac scoffed. "To be fair, when do things ever go according to plan?"

A barrage of hot lead punctured our vehicle from behind. The van swerved, tires squealing. I stumbled, barely maintaining my footing, my stomach queasy. Smith jerked the wheel, steadying the car. My head snapped in the direction of the bullets. There were gangsters hot on our trail, bearded bikers with machine guns. _Oh no._

"We got company," Cadillac announced, advancing to the rear-end of the van. He paused to break open his double-barrel shotgun and reload. "Tracey, keep your head down."

I followed his command, sinking low to the floor.

He pushed open the back door. Using only one hand to aim, his other splayed on the van's roof for balance, his sawn-off shotgun roared, belching smoke and fire. _Bang. Bang._ Two of our pursuers were blown off their bikes from the impact, blood spraying in a fine red mist.

Our victory was short-lived. Another biker pulled up to the passenger side door, the creep gazed directly at me. I froze as an Uzi leapt into view. _Holy crap. I'm screwed._

Fear draining the warmth from my insides, I shut my eyes. A rock-solid, massive arm circled my waist, and a shield came down over me. The Uzi chattered loud enough to make my ears bleed; the magazine emptied in under two seconds.

I opened my eyes and found myself in Cadillac's sheltering embrace. The van was perforated with bullet holes, but we were safe thanks to his shield. He kicked the passenger door open and it slammed against the bike, the force of the blow tipped the motorcycle over, and the driver took a nose-dive into the hard-packed dirt. _Woo!_

Smith stared at us from the rearview mirror. "Are you two alright?"

"_Yes!_" I hugged Cadillac. "That was awesome!"

"Hey, don't get soft on me now, sweets. This ain't over yet." Cadillac gave me a rough pat on the back, his cognac-brown eyes found mine. "Don't freeze up like that again. I might not be here to save you next time." He grabbed my gun from the holster and placed it in my hands, his voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "Fuck what Olly says, don't hesitate to shoot. It's survival of the fittest out here. Your daughter needs you alive, think about Emma."

I nodded stiffly. He was right. He was totally right. _Pull yourself together, Tracey!_

Smith stood on the brake, the van skid to a stop. Otto abandoned his bike on the side of the road and fled into the remnants of a derelict building. Smith, being the fastest of us three, instantly sprang into action. He climbed out of the van and pursued the suspect, leaving Cadillac and I in the dust.

"Stay behind me," Cadillac instructed as we inched through the narrow entrance, shield first.

Dingy, smudge-stained light lit the stairwell, and debris obscured the steps. Smith's back was pressed against the crusty, cracked wall. He stuck up a palm toward us, a firm gesture of caution. Cadillac froze, and so did I.

There were footsteps, _a lot_ of footsteps. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Feet shuffled all around us. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, perspiration trickled down my chin. I clasped Cadillac's plated shoulder, my gaze darted from the crater-sized holes in the walls bleeding mouse-chewed insulation, to the dark halls surrounding us where ambushers could be hiding in wait…

I listened hard, strange groaning and creaking filled my ears, flies buzzed, the skitter of rats across the floorboards only worsened my anxiety. Gooseflesh broke out fast and stiff on my arms.

_'…don't hesitate to shoot…' _Cadillac's words echoed in my mind. My fingers were sweaty and clumsy as I slid the safety off my gun.

_I can do this. _

"You're dead!" A gangster wearing a skull-and-bones bandana across his forehead emerged from the dark with a cleaver in hand. Smith executed him with a shot to the head, only for more thugs to come forth. Before I knew it, there were tons of them. My heart hammered against my chest. Without thinking, I started shooting at every creeper I saw in leather, my bullets tearing flesh, ripping muscle.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted Cadillac pinning a scrawny, green-haired punk to the wall with his shield. He performed a powerful push, and the guy's head caved in, brains and gooey stuff flew out like an overripe melon. _Ew. _

"_Oh, god!_" A man cried in agony as Smith dislocated his arm. My partner followed up with a spinning back kick to the face, the devastating blow knocked the goon out cold.

Most of our opponents were either unconscious or dead. Except for one. "I got a present for ya!" Otto yelled from above, a strange object tumbled down the stairs before us.

A grenade…

_It's a grenade!_

Smith's hand caught my wrist and snatched me into the shadows of the nearest room, his arms gathered my body against him. I held onto him tight, the safety of his clinging embrace renewed the hope within me. Cadillac barreled inside after us, his blood-soaked shield positioned at the door.

**_Boom!_**

The enormous blast shook the building. Plaster and glass came crashing down, and my ears were ringing painfully from the sound. It was the worst. _This is crazy!_

Smith's warmth left me. Fearlessly, he flung himself out the door. Cadillac latched onto his arm, pulling him back in. "Olly, don't," Cadillac warned. "It's too dangerous, man. Let's call in for backup—"

Gritting his teeth tightly together, my partner jerked away from him and continued his relentless pursuit, ascending the stairwell two steps at a time.

"Shit, shit, shit," Cadillac paced, grimacing. "Goddamn, this is fucking insane. He's gonna get himself killed—"

"Come on!" I grabbed Cadillac's hand and urged him out the door. "Olly needs our help!"

He was unmoving, his feet rooted against the ground. "Sweetie, this is getting out of control. We gotta call this in—"

Another grenade went off. **_Bam!_** The fragile roof overhead began to crack, and splinter. Cadillac charged forward, knocking me out of the way just before the entire ceiling caved in on top of us. All that remained of the room was rubble and lumps of concrete. Sprawled on my back beside Cadillac, I coughed, a thick dust coated the air.

"Shit, that was close," he hauled himself to his feet, waving the dust out of his face. "You okay?"

My knees were scraped and aching from the fall, but it could've been _much_ worse. "Yeah," I said. "I'm fine. Nice save, as always." He offered me his hand and yanked me up with a single strong pull.

I glanced at the exit. It was blocked by rubble. My jaw trembled. Otto and his reckless use of explosives was tearing the building apart.

"Ain't no turning back now," Cadillac tapped my shoulder. "Come on, let's go find Olly."

Cadillac hastened up the cement stairs with me at his heels. "Freeze!" Smith's voice echoed through the grime-encrusted halls. We followed the sound to the second floor, turning into a gray, barren room with huge windows. My partner held Otto at gunpoint. "I said freeze!"

"Or what? You gonna kill me?" Otto burst into a low, sinister laugh, showing his chipped, toothless gums as he backpedaled slowly toward the window. "Shoot me and you'll never know what I did to Shanice, and the children…"

_Children? He's harmed more than one?_

"You are one sick fuck," Cadillac glowered.

"What has become of Nancy?" Smith questioned. "What have you done with her?"

"You never gon' find her, lawman," Otto glanced out the window. "It was nice chattin' with you scumbags, but I reckon I got a ride to catch. See ya later, pigs." In one swift motion, he spun on a heel and then catapulted through the glass.

With the unblinking gaze of a hawk focused on its prey, Smith bolted, jumping out the window after him.

_Oh my god_. A pang of alarm erupted in my chest. "Smith!" I ran, thrusting my head out the shattered window. My partner and the suspect landed on the cargo container of a _moving effing truck_.

_They're both insane._

Smith rose gracefully, casually dusting off his vest and slacks as if jumping out of two-story buildings onto moving vehicles was nothing out of the ordinary. That was the last I saw of him before the truck merged into highway traffic and disappeared.

Cadillac took my side. "Okay, so…that just happened."

The sound of boots shuffling over the floor captured my attention. I pivoted, facing the pot-bellied Sheriff Peterson, and his annoying deputy, Angela. _Great. _

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the sheriff whipped out his revolver and pulled the trigger. _Bang. Bang. Bang. _A trio of bullets slammed into Cadillac's chest. He stumbled, coughing out blood. Time came to a slow as his shotgun and shield hit the floor with a boisterous **_thud_**.

Cadillac crumbled to the ground, grew fatally still, lifeless. Tears distorted my vision, a whimper slipped through my lips.

"Fuck you!" I turned my pistol on the sheriff. _Click._ Out of ammo._ No…No! _I patted my pockets frantically, hands trembling. _Where? Where did I put it? I need another magazine!_

"I've been waitin' for this moment for a _long_ time," Deputy Angela struck my face with the butt of her gun. Pain thundered through my head. I lost my footing, blacking out from the excruciating ache.

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**Hope you guys enjoyed the action! Thanks for reading, leave a review, like and fav please! Love you guys!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey guys, I'm back with an early update! This one is in Smith's pov! I think you guys will enjoy this one ;)**

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**Oliver**

"Unhand me, ya fuckin' pig!" Otto struggled frantically against his handcuffs as I dragged him along the desolate, sunbaked road. "Sheriff Peterson is the law 'round here! You got no right!"

"Resistance is futile," I tightened my grip on his arm. The pained whimper that slipped through his lips was quite satisfying. He deserved worse. _Much worse._

The wide-open country road seemed boundless, and quite frankly, I had no clue where the bloody hell to go. We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by scruffy brush and stunted trees dotting the barren land, the blazing desert sun beat down on our heads without remorse. Heat rose off the hard-packed dirt in waves, sweat dampened my clothes and hair.

With nowhere else to go, I followed the road, walking, walking, walking…my limbs grew heavy. There wasn't a single car or soul in sight, just dirt, and more dirt. My phone had no service, my radio busted. I coughed, dust trapped in my throat. _I cannot go on like this for much longer…_

I peeled off my tactical vest and abandoned it in the brush, the heat wasn't as oppressive stripped down to my shirt and tie. Otto, however, was not faring well. "I can't!" he dropped to his knees, panting, his eyes bloodshot. "I'm tired! I'm so tired—" I yanked him up, only for him to stagger and fall yet again a second later. "I needa break. Please, just gimme a break!"

"You made me chase you all around this godforsaken desert and _now_ you plead for mercy?" I unholstered my Glock. "There will be no mercy."

"Whoa, whoa!" Otto's shaky hands shot up in surrender. "Hold your horses, now! Put that darn gun down!"

"You said it yourself—I'd never find Nancy, nor the rest of the children, so why not avenge them while I have the chance?"

"'Cause you're a goddamn lawman! Yo-you gotta do things by the book, cut-and-dried, that's—that's how it works!

"By the book?" I bit off a hysterical laugh. "The justice system is riddled with holes and tiresome protocols. So much needless paperwork, and databases, and case folders, not to mention due process…such a bore! Real progress cannot be made behind red tape and formalities. No, no, it simply won't do. The law serves as a blockade, it hinders what truly matters—_vengeance_."

His face grew ashen. "You ain't gon' do nothin'. You…you can't!"

"I can, Otto. One way or another, you will pay for your crimes." I knelt before him. "Those pitiful thugs you call friends? The Lost MC? They can comb this wasteland in search for your body for days, weeks, months, years even, but their efforts will be in vain, I assure you. I can make you disappear. Another statistic, dead and forgotten." Swiftly, I raised the barrel of my gun just beside his ear and pulled the trigger.

**_Bang!_**

Otto wailed, shuddering, the deafening noise ruptured his eardrum, a trickle of blood poured down his lobe. Sprawled on his stomach, he tried to crawl away. I stomped on him, the heel of my shoe pressed firmly on his back. "It doesn't have to end this way," I said. "Prove to me you are not useless, and perhaps I shall let you live."

"Fuck, okay!" he submitted, his pathetic squirming ceased. "I ain't lay a finger on them children! Honest!"

"And I am supposed to believe that?" I scoffed. "It is not wise to test my patience."

"I swear on my daddy's grave! I ain't joshing ya, man—"

The grating noise of heavy tires rolling over the dirt was a healing balm to my exhausted soul. There was a dingy white van coming down the road, a shred of hope at last! _Perfect_. I glanced at Otto. "Do not move, and I will have no reason to shoot you in the back, understand?"

He nodded stiffly.

I turned and stood in the center of the road with my badge raised. The van glided to a stop. A rather lanky looking fellow in an oversized black shirt emerged, his neck was riddled with tattoos. "What the hell you doin' in the middle of the road, dawg?" he sneered, the wide brim of his green Los Santos cap draped much of his face in shadows. "I coulda ran yo' dumbass over."

"But you did not," I said.

"Yeah," he peered at my badge. "'Cause you a fuckin' fed."

"That I am. And you are?"

"Lamar—Lamar Davis. I'm an entrepreneur. Not as legit as a federal agent, but I still get paid all the same. Moolah makes the world go 'round, you feel me?"

"You are a businessman, how quaint. I have a proposition for you." I pointed at Otto. "Provide my prisoner and I a lift to Sandy Shores, and I shall be in your debt."

"Prisoner?" Lamar stiffened, his gaze locked on Otto. "You arresting this dude? What he do?"

"That is classified information."

"Classified?" His lips twisted into a snarl. "Nah, you shady as a motherfucker, man. I'm out. I ain't helpin' no damn fed'." He turned for his car.

"Wait." I stepped in front of him. "I know this must seem strange—"

"Strange is an understatement, dawg. Pickin' up random white dudes on the side of the road ain't never a smart thing to do, I've seen the movies." He glanced at the blades holstered to my belt. "You sure you a fed? 'Cause you giving off some crazy serial killer vibes right now."

I glanced at the van, and then back at the hesitant stranger. It would be so easy to incapacitate him and take the vehicle for myself.

But how could I be so cruel? This man has done nothing wrong and had every right to be suspicious. If I left him stranded here, in the middle of nowhere, he would certainly die. Violence was not the answer. Persuasion, however, was the more reasonable course of action.

"Hear me out." I gave Otto a sidelong glance before continuing, making doubly sure the slippery bastard wasn't up to anything suspicious. "The fugitive in my custody is under arrest for the suspicion of murder, child endangerment, abduction, arson, racketeering, vandalism—"

"Damn," Lamar frowned. "What _didn't _this dude do?"

"He is scum," I sighed, the thought of his unspeakable crimes weighed heavily on my conscience. This was such a cruel world… "I beg of you, help me give the families of the victims who's suffered from his brutality some peace of mind. Help me give them the justice they so desperately deserve. A lift to Sandy Shores is all I ask. I will be eternally in your debt—"

"Pay up." Lamar opened his palm to me. "No bread, no ride, homie. What's it gonna be?"

"You drive a hard bargain, sir." I groped my pocket for my wallet and then handed him a single hundred-dollar bill.

His gaze was fixed on the leftover money peeking out of my wallet. "You holdin' out on me. You know its hard out here for a brother, I'm in unfamiliar fuckin' territory, homie. All these motherfuckin' rednecks and shit, it ain't safe for a nigga to be out and about wit' only a hundred-dollars in his damn pocket, you feel me? Hook a nigga up, man."

I shoved the remainder of my cash in his hand. "There. Satisfied now?"

He counted the hundreds, a huge smile plastered on his face. "Hell yeah, I'm motherfuckin' satisfied. Get in, white boy. We moving."

"Delightful." I fetched Otto and threw him in the backseat of the van. "Get any bright ideas and I will _end_ you."

"Fuck you, Federal Dipshit! I'll fucking kill you!" Otto spun and attempted to kick me. _How amusing._ I caught his leg and jerked him toward me, striking his face with my clenched fist. He doubled over in pain, his nose bloodied from the impact.

"Goddamn," Lamar winced, taking the wheel. "You punched the shit outta his ass. Give that poor motherfucker a tissue or somethin'. He bleedin' all over the whip."

I drew a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped his battered nose. "You have one more chance. _Just one_. Sit, be silent, and I will have no reason to put a bullet in your skull." I slammed the door in his bloody, defeated face.

I took the front passenger seat alongside Lamar. It was hotter in here than outside. _How quaint._ "Buckle up, homie. These dusty ass roads are bumpy as a motherfucker."

"Yes. Of course." I fastened my seat belt, and we took off, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror. I could not afford to let Otto out of my sight. He was a devious bastard with no sense of remorse whatsoever.

I felt the heat of Lamar's gaze. "You got a name, Mr. FIB?"

"Oliver Smith." I gazed at the diamond LS chain hanging from his neck. "You are from Los Santos?"

"Born and raised, homie." A proud smile spread across his face. "Where you from? Britain?"

"Correct. Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah, the accent kinda gives it away, man. Where your homies at?"

I furrowed a brow. "Pardon?"

"Cops usually move in packs. They swarm motherfuckers like roaches, no offense."

"None taken. My team and I were separated during the pursuit of the suspect. I am hoping to reconvene with them in Sandy Shores." A pang of guilt struck me. I was so thoroughly preoccupied in my pursuance of the suspect, I left Tracey and Andre behind. With no way of contacting them now, splitting up from my partners seemed like a tremendous mistake. I was reckless…

Hopefully my companions were safe and patiently awaiting my arrival in town.

"Funny thing, you wanting to go to Sandy Shores, 'cause I was headin' there myself before I ran into yo' uppity ass," Lamar said.

"Is that so? Do you mind if I ask why? I doubt you live there."

"Why not? A black man can't live in the country?"

I surveyed him briefly, taking note of his designer clothes and costly jewelry. "You don't strike me as the rural type."

"Ay, don't judge a book by its cover, man. I got Apache in my blood. The great plains, open fields, horses, and big booty, tribal voodoo bitches are all an essential part of my heritage, homie. But you right, I don't live in Sandy Shores. My girl does. We just got back together, and I ain't finna let no rednecks keep us apart."

"Very brave. However, it may be in your lover's best interest to relocate. Sandy Shores is not safe."

He shrugged. "Los Santos ain't either."

"It is the lesser of two evils. She can rest easier in the city."

"She can handle herself, white boy. I ain't worried." He grabbed a Styrofoam cup from between the car seat. It was filled with a thick, purplish liquid.

I narrowed my eyes. "What is that?"

"Juice." He took a sip.

"Juice? It looks an awful lot like medicine."

His expression hardened. He shot a glare at me. "It's grape juice, motherfucker. Look, don't worry about what the fuck I'm doin', a'ight? I'm good. I'm the one giving yo' bum ass a ride, be grateful."

"No need to be on the defensive." I managed an apologetic smile. "It was simply a question."

After a moment of tense silence, Lamar cleared his throat. "My bad, man. I don't like when cops ask me questions, it ain't nothin' personal. You seem like a cool dude."

"I appreciate the sentiment. The feeling is mutual."

Dusk was falling, painting the eastern sky a vivid copper red. The approaching night will be a welcome relief from the harsh sun. "So, you got a girl?" Lamar asked.

I stiffened, unnerved by the abrupt inquiry. "I do. Yes."

"Cool. She a fiend for the dick?"

"I would watch my tongue if I were you," I said through gritted teeth. "Those who have spoken crudely of her in the past are no longer breathing."

"Chill, man. I ain't mean no disrespect." He nudged my shoulder. "Lemme put it in proper English for yo' hoity-toity ass—she in love with you?"

I grew silent. The question threw me for a loop. _Is Tracey in love with me?_ I was in love with her, and she was quite fond of me, that much was clear. There was a difference between loving someone and being _in love, _however. She never distinctively confessed the latter. Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment.

Or, she didn't feel the same way I felt for her. Maybe her true love was Franklin, and only a small piece of her heart was reserved for me. She married him, _not me._ I was deemed unworthy in comparison to a conniving thug. He was beneath me in every possible way, and still, she brushed me aside. I was an afterthought.

Hm…quite a depressing bit of business there. A burning sensation stabbed at my chest. They say all wounds heal with time, but such a statement has never resonated with me. The scars only festered and smoldered, spreading like a lethal infection in my veins. It drained me of all hope, of happiness, and left behind bitterness. Resentment. Hatred.

Lamar's stare dragged me from my thoughts. "I'm guessin' she ain't feelin' you like that, huh?" His voice was thick with sympathy. It seemed authentic.

"It is a complicated affair," I lowered my sunglasses and rubbed the back of my stiff neck. On the road to nowhere, stuck in an automobile alongside an utter stranger, chatting casually about relationships with a suspect bleeding in the backseat…what a strange turn of events.

"Ay, look, homie, don't sweat that shit. Bitches are complicated. One day they love you, the next they can't stand yo' ass. They moody as a motherfucker, man. Money makes them stick around a 'lil longer though, and you don't seem like you got a short supply of bread."

"Money cannot buy love," I said. "It can produce fabricated, short-term affection, perhaps. Wealth can only get you so far concerning matters of the heart."

"Those rules don't apply in the hood. Where I'm from, it only takes five dollars and a nickel of crack to get a bitch on your dick."

"Well then…" I straightened my tie, unsure of how to proceed. "That is…good to know."

"It is good, dawg. 'Cause I got a lot of love to give, and I don't discriminate. I like cheap bitches, I like fat ass booty, I like medium sized booty, little booty, sweaty, stank ass booty, especially when the cheeks are clappin' in a nigga's face—"

"_Please_," I cringed. "Spare me the details."

"All I'm sayin' is, money and bitches is like loyalty and trust. Can't have one without the other, y'know what I'm talkin' about? Bitches love money more than they love themselves. There's millions of fat booties in the world, and I'ma need to be a billionaire to taste 'em all."

"You don't want to taste them all in the literal sense, I hope?"

"Definitely wanna taste them all in the literal sense, homie. That's the best motherfuckin' part, man. You missing out."

"That is debatable." I scoffed. "I assume you are in an open relationship?"

"Nah, my bitch don't play that shit. She'll kill my black ass. I'm getting older now, all my homies done settled down and shit, and I wanna do the same thing, but I'm like a magnet to the booty, you feel me? I want all the ass, I can't control my damn self."

"I see," I suppressed a chuckle. "Quite the dilemma."

"Yeah," his tone lowered. "Got any advice?"

"You must find a single rear you are fond of, and if it treats you right, you treasure it. Respect it. The ability to do so often comes with age. Maturity. Experience. Delayed gratification and self-restraint should be practiced regularly."

"It ain't that easy. I'm the king of the motherfuckin' jungle, all the bitches hear me _roar_," he gestured a claw with his hand and swiped at the air. "They be tryna back they tail up on me whenever my girl ain't looking. Everybody want a piece of Lamar, aka Long Dick, you feel me?"

"Not exactly, no." I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The lack of air-conditioning in here was beginning to agitate me. "If you are truly in love, you will resist the temptation."

"Man, you make everything sound so goddamn simple." He took another gulp of his questionable beverage. "Don't you like booty, homie?"

"I…I suppose."

"You suppose? You either do or you don't—_oh_, I get it. You prefer them big ol' titties, huh? I ain't judging, I love me some titties too."

I sighed, my patience growing thin. "Have you no shame? No filter? Your obnoxiousness is baffling."

"You a real uptight dude, man. It's all good, though. I know how to make you chill the fuck out." He withdrew a disgusting blunt from the glove compartment and lit it before me. _Bloody hell, the smell… _"This is the good shit, dawg. First hit is free, but next time you gotta pay up."

I gaped at him. _He is either insane, or an absolute imbecile. _"I am a federal agent. You are aware of this, correct?"

"Yeah." His eyes shifted from the road and gazed at me blankly. "So what?"

"And still, you attempt to sell me drugs?"

"Fed or not, getting faded is a good ass time, fool. C'mon, dawg, just take one hit—"

I skewed him with a hard, unblinking stare. "Are you _mad?_ Get rid of it—_now!_"

"Damn, man, why you gotta kill a nigga vibe?" He plucked the blunt out the window. "This the thanks I get for saving your life, bitch? Without me, the sun woulda cooked yo' ass by now, or a snake woulda bit you in the ass—both scenarios end with a dead, motherfuckin' fed. You should be thanking me, white boy."

"Oh, bugger off," I waved a hand at him dismissively. "I didn't arrest you for unlawful possession of codeine or cannabis, have I? Consider that my thanks, including the money you so carelessly swindled me out of."

"Man, fuck you," he glowered. "That was a waste of good product. You lucky you a cop, 'cause I woulda kicked yo' motherfuckin' teeth in by now."

"We can take 'em together!" Otto lunged forward. He hooked his wrists around my neck and pulled, choking me with the chain links of the handcuffs.

"Back the fuck up!" Lamar turned, balled his fist and swung viciously. His knuckles collided with Otto's face. **_Crack!_**

"_Gah!_" He fell back, his teeth went flying against the windshield. _Goodness._

I let out a deep breath, rubbing my aching neck. I smiled weakly at Lamar. "Much appreciated, friend."

"Oh, we friends now, huh?" Lamar grinned, his focus returned to the empty road. "For the record, if I wanted to kick yo' ass, I wouldn't need help from no inbred, country bumpkin motherfucker. I'd do it my damn self."

"I believe I've endured enough violence for one day, thank you," I readjusted my disheveled tie. "We should arrive at Sandy Shores soon. Let's try to get along until then, shall we?"

"I got no beef with you, homie. I mean, you are a fed, a snob too, and you made your boy toss out a fresh blunt—besides that, we cool." He drained his cup and lounged back in his seat, a sigh escaped him, his eyes heavy. "Damn, I'm faded as fuck…"

I stared at him, my brows wrinkled. He seemed like he was going to pass out any second now. _Oh dear. _The sooner we get to Sandy Shores, the better.

* * *

The dejected, isolated town of Sandy Shores emerged in the distance. We were almost there _at last!_

There were suspicious bikers loitering by the side of the road—more Lost MC by the looks of it. Instead of driving past them like any sensible bloke would, our van slid to a stop.

"I got some business I gotta handle…a package to deliver." Lamar reached under his seat and grabbed a brick of white powder wrapped in plastic. Half a kilo of cocaine. More drugs...

_The audacity. _Under normal circumstances, I would have arrested him right there. But Otto was my priority. I could not afford to be distracted. Ignoring the nagging temptation to slap handcuffs around his wrists, I uttered, "This is where we part ways."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Lamar climbed out of the van with his drugs in hand. He approached the bikers. The leather-clad thugs glared at him, arms crossed, their faces pinched and scowling.

The hostile body language was a clear indication that they were not very pleased to see Lamar. Tension emitted from them in waves, and I had a distressing feeling in my gut something awful was about to take place…

Lamar's unscrupulous affairs were, quite frankly, none of my business. I retrieved Otto from the backseat, and we continued our trek to Sandy Shores. Darkness gained upon the sky, stars peeping in and out of the curling, drifting clouds. Otto and I were only a few steps away from the car before crazed shouting found my ear.

I stopped and turned my head, my eyes flickered in the direction of the commotion. Lamar was on the ground, surrounded by bikers armed with crowbars and bats. _Well, that escalated quickly. _They were snickering, circling their prey like hyenas. It wouldn't be a quick kill. The thugs were planning to take their time tormenting him first.

What has Lamar done to anger The Lost MC? If they were conducting a drug deal together, they must have been friends at some point or another…

Otto laughed, a cold, vicious sound. "You just gon' stand there, lawman? They about to tear your buddy apart!"

I sighed and ran a shaky hand through my hair. This wasn't my fight. Lamar got himself into this predicament, now he must deal with the consequences. I had other obligations, more pressing matters to attend to…

"We gon' burn you alive, city boy!" One of the bikers lit a Molotov cocktail.

Instinctively, I drew my gun, aimed, and pinched the trigger. The bullet pierced his cranium and the bottle bomb shattered on the ground. There was a frenzy of movement as a burst of flame ignited the dirt, brightening the night.

My gaze snapped to Lamar. "Run!"

He peered at me for a moment, eyes wide and dilated. Then he scrambled for his car, disappearing inside, and peeling off into town.

Now that Lamar was gone, safe and sound without a scratch, I became the center of attention. A dark knot of gangsters came skulking in. Everywhere I turned, there was another, and another…until I was cornered. Trapped.

Otto struggled against my grip. "You done fucked up now, lawman. Let me go and maybe I'll convince my boys to kill ya quick."

I did a quick head count of my enemies. Seven. Assuming they didn't have any concealed firearms, a couple of crowbars and wooden baseball bats _should _be manageable. But I will need both hands for this scrap.

"Go on, attempt to flee like the pathetic coward you are." I released Otto and seized my throwing knives. "You will need the head start."

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys! We'll be seeing a lot more of Lamar in the future chapters, and...*drum roll*...the unholy ****trinity will be making an appearance very soon! No more spoilers though lol, I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far, I'm doing my best to keep the consistent updates coming! Let me know what you think, your ongoing support means everything to me! Leave a review please, I love you guys! **


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys, I'm back with an update. Before you read, please check out my tumblr Anboringday! I made some pretty cool digital art for my original characters, I'll put a link in my profile!**

**Update: The link on my profile was broken af, it appears this website doesn't like external links. It's fixed now though! (sort of) You'll have to copy and paste the link unfortunately. **

**The art took me a while to make, so I hope you guys like it! And it should give you a better visual of how my characters look ;) Anyway, lets get to reading :D**

* * *

**Cadillac**

"Andre!" A pair of slender hands grappled my shoulders and shook me. "_Andre!_"

I woke with a jolt of adrenaline, puzzled at the sudden change of light. Where the fuck am I? Everything was a blur. My helmet and balaclava were gone. I groped the concrete floor for my shotgun and shield. Nothing. What happened to my gear?

Pain sharpened my perception, and with abrupt clarity, the most beautiful brunette I've ever laid eyes on emerged.

Amanda De Santa.

She was a pretty, willowy thing, seated on her knees before me in those tight-fitting yoga pants, close enough that I could inhale her soft, vanilla scented perfume. Her fair, delicate face was partly hidden by wispy strands of lustrous brown hair that escaped her ponytail.

Her bright blue eyes found mine, sparkling, laced with concern for me. "Andre?" She edged closer. Her breasts, which were practically on the verge of busting out of her white tank top, brushed over my chest. _Nice. _The sight, warmth, and feel of her was a damn fine distraction from the pain—

_Tracey! _I squinted, my gaze strayed around the condemned, white-washed empty room. _Where is she?_ There was no sign of her anywhere. Not even a trace of blood, which was a relief. Maybe she's not dead.

I need to find the Sheriff. I'm gonna tear his fucking throat out when I get my hands on him. Motherfucker shoulda made sure I was dead.

I had every right to be pissed, but Amanda was here and _damn_—she was looking fine. My brain cells would fry and shrivel up in her presence. All I could think about was kissing her soft mouth and grabbing those huge, perky titties. It was a small wonder she could keep her svelte frame afloat with that kind of weight on her chest. Not that I was complaining. Her body was perfectly proportioned, curvy in all the right places.

Her husband was one lucky dude. Fighting the lethargy and crippling discomfort, I struggled to sit up and face her. "Hey, pretty lady."

"Oh, thank god," Amanda wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. _Fuck, that hurts._ A tight groan slipped through my lips. She withdrew, a rush of pink stained her cheeks. "Oh, am I hurting you? I'm sorry—"

"It's…it's okay," I frowned, missing her warmth already regardless of my injury. "I'm happy…to see you too."

She stroked my cheek soothingly. "Have you seen my daughter? Where's Tracey?"

"Gone. The Sheriff, I-I think he has her—"

"What?" She stared wide-eyed at me for two full seconds. "Why on earth would the Sheriff have my daughter? You're not making any sense!"

Tenderly, I took her hand, our fingers intertwined. "Hey, relax. We'll find Tracey together, Mandy." I gritted my teeth, pain lanced through my chest. "It's all good. Everything is gonna be fine—"

She pressed a finger to my lips, "You're bleeding, honey. We gotta get you patched up, then you'll help me find my daughter, okay?"

I nodded. Carefully this time around, she placed my arm around her shoulder and attempted to hoist me up. It hurt like a bitch, but the extra support was just what I needed to get back on my feet. Slowly, she escorted me out of the room into the vacant halls, down the chipped, uneven staircase, and through a backdoor exit. Night was falling, and every step she took was with great care. Occasionally she would stop, and her gaze would flutter over me anxiously, a silent gesture of concern. I'd squeeze her hand, manage a smile, or nuzzle my face in her hair to soothe her nerves, to assure her I was good to keep forging on.

But I wouldn't be for much longer. Keeping up with her was a torturous exercise in sheer willpower and pain tolerance. There was either a .38 or .45 caliber round in my chest, and it felt like it was sinking deeper and deeper with every step. I've been shot before, but never at point blank range by a Colt 1911 revolver. My body armor absorbed the brunt of the impact, but it might not be enough. There was blood pooling in the back of my mouth, so much I had to spit it out to avoid choking.

Fuck. This wasn't how I imagined going out. Why couldn't it be quicker? And a little less fucking agonizing?

Hopefully Olly and Tracey were doing better than I am. If they were even alive. How did everything get so fucked? The moment Olly left us, the situation took a rapid turn for the worse…

"We're almost there, handsome. Just hang on." Amanda escorted me to a bright red Sentinel parked outside the building. She helped me into the backseat and climbed in alongside me, locking the doors with a touch of the car remote dangling from her keychain. The air-conditioning in here was amazing.

Eyes narrowed and lips pinched tight, she immediately began to work off my heavy gear, her movements a mixture of tenderness and unshakable determination. Ignoring the pain to the best of my ability, I helped her strip me down to my bare chest.

Amanda gazed at my wound and winced. "Oh, sweetie…"

My breath burned in my throat. Panting, I wiped the sweat from my forehead. "How…bad is it?"

"Bad." She wrangled her phone out of her rhinestone clutch purse and glanced at the screen. "Damn this piece of shit ghost town to hell, there's no fucking service!" She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. "_Namaste._"

"Baby girl." I cradled her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. "Help me. I…won't make it without you."

She nuzzled her face against mine. "You're _going_ to make it, do you understand me?" Her deep, sultry voice ignited hope, and heat inside me. Now was a shitty time to be turned on, I had a bloody, gaping hole in my chest for fuck's sake. Not that my body seemed to care. I was throbbing, aching to be touched in places that _really_ didn't need any attention right now.

I couldn't think of my own self-preservation when she was near. Shit wasn't healthy at all.

She twirled her manicured finger around my beard. "A bullet went through your vest. I can take it out, but what about the bleeding?"

"Let me worry about that," I said. "You got anything I can use for disinfectant?"

She dug through her purse and handed me a leather flask. "Drink some. It should help with the pain."

I took a gingerly sip, relishing the taste and warmth it spread through my veins. "You always carry a flask of whiskey around?"

"Aren't you glad?" She grabbed a pair of tweezers from her purse and began cleaning it with a small bottle of hand sanitizer. "Sit back and relax, you're in good hands. Back in my younger days, I did all sorts of things. Playing nurse was one of them, and not strictly limited to bedroom roleplay, might I add."

"You in one of those sexy nurse costumes?" I smiled. "Damn, I'd like to see that."

"Keep breathing, and you just might."

I leaned back, my head propped against the headrest, patiently waiting for Amanda to finish disinfecting her hands and the tweezers. She took her sweet time. I wanted this goddamn bullet out of me already, but it was best to be thorough.

I closed my weary eyes. _I'm tired. So tired…_

Heat found me. With a great deal of effort, I opened my eyes. Amanda was straddling me, tweezers in hand, her knees on the sides of my hips as she examined the hole in my chest. I breathed her in, immensely conscious of how good she smelled. Every labored breath I took was pure fucking agony, but with her _this _close…shit didn't seem so bad. She made the suffering tolerable. I could die a happy man holding her in my arms.

Her gaze drifted from my injury, and raked boldly over my torso, roaming down my stomach. Hesitantly, she touched my abdomen, moistening her cherry red lips with a suggestive sweep of her tongue. I shivered, an involuntary tightening gripped my gut as her palm glided to my navel, and then lower, and lower…

She jerked her hand back, blinking as if snapping out of a trance. "I'm sorry—your body is such a distraction."

"Hey, you're a distraction too." I cupped her cheek in my hand, gently brushing the pad of my thumb along her bottom lip. I loved the softness. "You're so pretty, baby."

She clasped my wrist and lowered it. "Andre, I have to focus." She hovered the tweezers over my wound. "Are you ready?"

Summoning the remaining vestiges of my strength, I took another gulp of whiskey. "Go for it."

"Be still. This is going to hurt."

Heartbeat pounding against my ribs, I squeezed my eyes shut as the pain intensified, hot and sharp. The metal poking around my insides was grueling, punishing. I squirmed, squeezing the flask, the leather creaking beneath the brute force of my grasp. It barely helped. There was no way to cope. No thought or memory compelling enough to distract me from the ache.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_…

Immersed in the throes of pain, Amanda's melodious voice cut through. "What have you been up to with my daughter? I know she isn't your dance coach."

Teeth clenched, I kept my voice soft, composed. "Shit, w-was it that obvious?"

"I know my daughter, Andre. She's a bad liar. I can see through her bullshit. I can see through yours, too."

She yanked the lead from the depths of my chest. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out. Thank fuck that's over_._

Amanda applied pressure to my festering wound with some tissues. "Now what?"

The world was out of whack and spinning like I had just gotten off a goddamn roller coaster. Distressed and trembling, I stilled, taking a moment to settle my twitchy nerves. I focused solely on breathing. In and out. Once my composure was somewhat intact and my surroundings stopped rotating, I poured the remainder of whiskey directly on my wound.

_Goddamn! _It stung like a motherfucker. Expelling a grunt, I stiffened, muscles tightening, veins protruding my skin. I felt faint, woozy, starbursts danced in my eyes. Whether it was from the pain or the blood loss, I couldn't be sure.

I gotta keep it together. I gotta hold on a little while longer. _For her. _

Dazed, I used the last bit of strength I had combing through my vest pouches. I had some pressure bandages and sterile gauze in here somewhere. My fingers wouldn't stop trembling, making the process of finding what I needed a fuckton more difficult.

Breathing heavily, I muttered, "I never meant to lie to you, Mandy. It kinda just happened. I'd…I'd take it back if I could."

"It's okay, we'll have plenty of time to talk about it later when we're back in Los Santos with Tracey," she mused. "All of us safe and sound having dinner together…"

"Would you…" I coughed, my voice subdued. "Would you cook for me, baby? I love your food."

"Of course, honey." Her gaze was soft, tender, filled with sympathy. "You can have whatever you want."

_Found it! _Ripping the pressure bandages out of the package, Amanda held the gauze to my wound while I secured it tightly with dressing. That should stop the bleeding…hopefully.

Exhausted, I leaned against her, using her breasts as a cushion for my head. "Hold me?"

Her arms slid around my back, and she pinched me. "Andre, wake up. You can't sleep. You're still bleeding for Christ's sake!"

My limbs were so heavy, moving was out of the question. I yawned, my words slurred. "I'm gonna close my eyes…just…for a sec'."

"Andre! Andre—"

**_Crack!_** The passenger side window shattered to pieces. A hand reached in and snatched Amanda, dragging her through the broken glass into the cold night air. It happened so fast. My heart thundered. She screamed my name, distraught, reaching out to me for dear life.

In an instant, my fight or flight response kicked in. I fought off the drowsiness, an infusion of adrenaline rushed through my veins. My muscles vibrated. Whoever was out there made a big fucking mistake. I ignored the pain and lunged out of the car.

Most of the town was cloaked in darkness, with the small exception of the dim-lit streetlights. Some old, dusty motherfucker dressed head to toe in skintight leather held Amanda, her arm pinned behind her back. She whimpered, eyes teary, a pained hiss slipped between her teeth.

"We've been looking for you, pig." He spat on the ground. "You're gonna regret fucking with us."

I could barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. This guy wasn't alone. Motorcycles were pulling up on the shadowy road, bikers with lead pipes and crowbars were heading my way. They were laughing, apparently bullying females and rolling deep on one dude was real fucking funny.

I cracked my corded neck from side to side. "I'm not the one to fuck with."

"Detective!" Olly's voice echoed from the darkness. My head snapped in the direction of his call. I caught a faint motion at the edge of my field of vision. I stepped back, dodging the leather gloved fist of a biker. I latched onto the fixed blade knife holstered to his belt and plunged it into his side. His punctured kidney bawled blood. One less Lost MC shithead to deal with. I moved onto the next, head-butting him away to meet the following attacker.

The next guy was frail and malnourished. Weak. When he hit me with a crowbar, I stifled a laugh, clutched his chin and head in my hands. He squirmed. With a firm twist, his neck snapped like a twig.

"Fucker!" A sinewy body clung to my back, an arm tightened around my throat. I reached above my head, clutching a fistful of shaggy hair. I yanked, fast and fierce, flipping him over onto the dirt before me. I retrieved the crowbar on the ground. A single downward swing and his skull caved in, blood sprayed on my boots.

"That's enough!" Now that all his friends were disposed of, the dusty fuck restraining Amanda whipped out a gun. "Not so tough now, are ya?"

"Don't!" Amanda cried, struggling against him. "Don't hurt him!"

"I'm gonna kill you and make your little girlfriend watch—" A blade sunk into the side of his neck from behind. He went stiff, blood spewing as he crumpled to his knees. Amanda ran into my arms, burying her beautiful, tear streaked face in my neck.

"It's okay, baby girl. You're safe now." I held her trembling frame, threading my fingers through her hair. My partner stepped into the light, his shirt ripped, tailored vest and slacks splattered with blood. He had a slight limp but seemed fine otherwise. I smiled. Took him long enough to show up.

He didn't have Otto with him. Not a good sign.

"Reunited at last," Olly beamed at me, but his happy expression quickly faded, his brows furrowed. "Where is Tracey?"

I frowned. "Uh, about that…"

Rubbing the tears from her eyes with her knuckles, Amanda spun around and glared at Olly. "What the fuck are _you_ doing here?"

Olly went rigid. "Mrs. De Santa, a pleasure to see you. How do you do? You look lovely, all things considered. I love the purse, is that rhinestone or authentic diamonds—"

She stomped up to him and punched him square in the mouth. I winced. _Damn_.

"_Oof." _He staggered back, holding his jaw. "I-I suppose I deserve that."

"Damn right you do," she sneered, nursing her swollen knuckles. "What do you want? Haven't you ruined my family's life enough already?"

I slipped in front of her and gathered her hands in mine. "Mandy, calm down."

"No! He kidnapped my daughter, almost killed my husband…" She pulled away from me, her eyes darkened. "Wait—what's going on here? Are you two friends?"

"Partners," Olly corrected, straightening his tie. "We have been partners for years."

"Olly, stay the fuck out of this," I snapped. Tension tightened the delicate features of Amanda's face. My insides twisted by the woman standing before me, I reached out to her again. "Baby, I can explain—"

"Fuck you." She shoved me back. "I'm going to find my daughter. You both can go to hell." She turned away, forging further into the most dangerous, fucked up town in all of Blaine County. Alone. In the middle of the night.

I took a step forward to go after her. A hand caught my arm.

"Wait," Olly said, staring at my chest. "Why are you shirtless? Is that blood? Are you hurt, mate?"

"I'm good," I muttered. "Don't worry about me."

"Have you seen Tracey? Where is she?"

Frustrated with his nagging questions, I wrangled out of his grip. "Tracey's gone."

"Gone?" His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'gone'? Weren't you watching over her? It was your duty to protect her—"

"_My duty?_" Shaking my head, I laughed bitterly. "After you jumped out a goddamn two-story window and _abandoned _us, Sheriff Peterson showed up, shot me, and the rest is fucking history. I don't know what happened to Tracey, it's kinda hard to keep track of damsels in distress with a bullet in my chest. I was bleeding out on the fucking floor, man. And you were nowhere to be found."

He grimaced, his eyes grew wet. "Andre, I—"

The wounded puppy look wasn't gonna work this time. "You were out of line today. You were reckless, dude. What the fuck were you thinking?" I jammed a finger against his chest. "You split up the squad pursuing Otto and now everything is going to shit. I'd say it was worth it, but it looks like the suspect got away, huh?"

Olly went silent.

I glanced at the sunken, slashed tires of Amanda's car. _Fuck me._ I scrubbed a hand over my face. "You do realize how fucked things are right now, don't you? We're stranded here, we can't call for backup, county law enforcement is working against us, The Lost MC and the rednecks wanna bury us, Tracey's missing…"

Olly lowered his head, not meeting my eyes. "I will fix it."

"_Fix it?_" I scratched my head. "How, man? How are you gonna do that?"

He grabbed my shoulders and squeezed affectionately, his gaze softening. "Forgive me, friend. You are right, I've been reckless. Foolhardy. I have made so many mistakes…"

A pang of guilt struck me. I sighed, clutching his elbow. "Olly, look, you're only human. Shit happens, we'll get through this."

"Find Amanda. Protect her." He turned with a quick snap of his shoulders.

I stared at his back as he walked away. "Where are you going?"

He didn't respond. I watched him leave. As tempted as I was to go after my partner, I'd be one heartless motherfucker to leave Amanda to fend for herself.

I went after her.

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**Hope you guys enjoyed this one! Follow me on tumblr, Anboringday! I post GTA 5 content pretty regularly, and I'll be posting more gta 5 loading screens and digital art for my ocs very soon! I love you guys for reading, leave a review, your feedback means the world to me! Thank you!**


	17. Chapter 17

**I'm back with an update guys, right on time! Enjoy!**

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**Cadillac**

"Amanda!" I came up from behind and veered in front of her. "Listen, I know you're upset, but you can't go running off by yourself. It's too dangerous."

"You're a liar!" She pushed me—well, tried to—it felt more like a heavy-handed tap. _Cute._ I didn't budge. "I thought you were different, 'the nice guy', but you and Michael, you're both the fucking same…"

Her voice faded to the back of my mind as I watched her lips move, the tip of her tongue swayed with every word. I haven't felt her kissable, red rouged lips against mine in days and I was dying for the taste.

The blood in my veins went hot and molten, threatening my control. Amanda wasn't mine to have. If only she wasn't so damn sexy…I knew where this was heading—straight down a road of getting fucked over.

I wasn't interested in a short-term affair. I wanted more. I needed more. I _deserved_ more.

How could I compare to a dude like Michael? Her first love? I wasn't rich. I didn't have millions to throw around, a mansion in Rockford Hills with a private pool, luxury cars or yachts, but maybe…maybe I could make her want me.

The chances of being with her were slim. Real slim. Against my better judgement, I took the chance anyway.

Passion overriding caution, I gripped a fistful of her silky hair and pulled her to me, my mouth slanted over hers. She let out a feeble sound of protest and went completely still, her resistance beginning to break. Her heart raced, nipples hardening into tight points against my chest. Gradually, she softened in surrender, melting into the kiss, clinging to my shoulders as if her knees were going to give out.

"_Andre…_" she moaned against my lips. I shivered.

All the fight left her. She kissed me back, her tongue thrust aggressively into my mouth, demanding and greedy. It was always a fight for dominance between us, and that fight always ended in her favor. She was a strong woman who had to be in control. I admired that.

But she wasn't gonna win today.

With a growl, I dragged my lips away. My mouth opened on her neck, devouring the softness. I cupped her hip, and her shapely, flexible leg rose in response, curling around my waist. Her long-limbed figure molded to mine perfectly. Through her sheer, skin-tight leggings, I could feel her heat, her core trembling against my throbbing shaft. Wait—was Amanda wearing panties?

I slid my hand into her pants, and fondled the soft, exposed curves of her ass. _Hot damn_, she really was going commando.

I think I'm in love.

We were stranded in the middle of nowhere, in the dusty, poverty-stricken, piece of shit town known as Sandy Shores. Tracey was missing, I had a bullet wound in my chest, thugs were probably lurking in the shadows watching us make out…

Now really wasn't the time for this.

"Your husband and I ain't the same," I nipped at her earlobe, making her shudder. "You know me, baby. I'm nothing like him."

"Look at you." Her eyes riveted to my face, a smile quirked her flawless mouth. "I bet you can charm just about any woman that crosses your path, can't you?"

"Being charming requires energy and time I usually don't have." I grabbed my pack of smokes and lit a cigarette. "Looks like you caught me on a good day."

"It's not the first time." She grabbed the cigarette from my mouth and claimed it as their own, taking a long pull. I glanced at the empty paperboard box and tossed it aside. No smokes left. Oh well, I didn't mind. It was a nice view, watching her put things between those sensuous lips. "Remember that night we spent together two years ago?"

I smiled, the memory of the luxurious fur coat she wore that fateful night—the way it dragged across the floor as she entered my office and sashayed to my desk in that formfitting leather skirt…her beauty was fresh in my mind, crystal clear as a picture.

It was a roughly a month after my promotion to detective, and I was still settling into my private office. I had a mountain of paperwork to file and an empty coffee mug in desperate need of refilling, but I was too preoccupied by the slender brunette with huge tits sitting cross-legged at my desk.

I was tense, wired tight and on edge. It wasn't right for a married woman to walk around looking like _that. _I leaned back into my dark leather office chair, cracking my knuckles to relieve the tension in my fingers that were aching to touch the softness of her skin.

Her blue gaze gleamed at me expectantly, with some suspicion too. "Is it done, Detective?"

"Merryweather Security won't be a problem any longer," I said. "Their chief board member and major shareholder, Devin Weston—the billionaire who sent the order to have you and your family killed—took a trip off a cliff by your husband and his associates. With him out the way, the private military company's funding is gonna take a huge hit."

"Michael killed him?" She grimaced. "How do you know this won't come back to haunt us? Devin Weston is an important man, someone must be looking for him."

"I took care of it."

"Are you sure?"

"I rather not get into the gritty details of how cleaning up and disposing evidence works." I took a long drag of my cigarette before continuing. "No one's going to find him. He's gone, hon. Your family's safe."

Pressing fingers to her smiling red lips, she murmured, "Thank you for doing this. I know it was a risk…"

"No need to thank me. The world's a better place with a piece of shit like Devin Weston out of the picture. Your husband is far from perfect, but he won't end up behind bars. Not for this, at least."

"Fucking Michael…" She crossed her arms over her chest. "He continuously puts my children in danger, I shouldn't have to hire you to clean up his bullshit. And those pictures…" Amanda frowned, her expression wounded, gaze wet and distant.

My gut twisted in knots. _The pictures. _A few weeks before Merryweather showed up at the peaceful suburbs of Rockford Hills and infiltrated the De Santa residence with assault rifles, Amanda hired me for a job. She wanted me to follow her husband, to find out exactly what he was up to, and offered me a huge sum of money to keep my findings confidential. Everything I found, no matter how shady or illegal, stayed between us.

And hell, the amount of shit I dug up on that guy…he'd serve a life sentence in prison guaranteed. But she didn't care about the shitload of heinous crimes he committed. She didn't care that he was a goddamn murdering psychopath. She was concerned with only one thing: the pictures I took of him fucking a prostitute in his car.

And, naturally, she had been hurting. _But why? _Why was she still with him? She still had youth on her side, a bright mind, heart-stoppingly gorgeous to boot—she could do better. A lot better. Maybe she loved him, poor pretty little thing. And maybe in some toxic, fucked up way, he loved her too.

She had started to cry, pearl-shaped tears ran down her delicately carved face. I wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but damn…it'd be inappropriate. She was my client.

I gripped my coffee cup tightly. It made no fucking sense to be angry over infidelity in her marriage. Her lousy ass husband was his own man, and the shitty things he did in his free time with hookers was none of my concern.

But his actions were causing her pain and it pissed me off. He had the most beautiful woman in the world, and he didn't know how to treat her. I'd kill to be him. He didn't deserve what he had—

My cup had crumbled into ceramic shards in my grasp. Shit. That was my favorite mug at the time too.

She scrambled to her feet, and lunged for my hand, scanning it for wounds. "Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?"

"I'm good." I stiffened as her manicured fingers carefully probed my palm. It was a sensual caress. I closed my eyes, amazed at the softness.

"You've been good to me, Detective," her voice lowered to a seductive whisper. She inched closer, my senses filled with her sweet scent. Then her hands were on me, skimming down my stomach, sending quivers of anticipation up my spine. My body hardened. For a moment, I had thought I was dreaming. That, or my imagination was on overdrive.

Once she toyed with the button of my pants, my pulse kicked, and I jolted out of my seat. "What are you doing?"

"Showing you some appreciation. You must be lonely, spending all these sleepless nights in this tiny little office…" Her mouth curved into a provocative, teasing smirk.

Unable to resist the temptation of her rosy red lips, I went in for a kiss. The back of her hand cracked against my face so quickly, I flinched, momentarily dazed.

"_I'm married_," she blurted, taking a step back.

I shook my head, regaining my composure. Amanda was a feisty thing. Some dudes woulda been turned off by a little pain. I sure as fuck wasn't.

She had been going through a lot lately and wasn't herself. She needed to get her priorities straight, work on her marriage or end it. Either way, she needed time. "Mandy, I think you should go—"

"Don't tell me what to do." In one swift motion, she rushed into my arms, kissing me with reckless abandon. Talk about mixed signals. She tore at my clothes, ripping open buttons, tearing fabric. With a sweep of my hand, I brushed my paperwork aside and made sweet, sweet love to her right there on the desk.

Highlight of my life.

She didn't feel the same. The following day, she called me, said the night we shared was a mistake and to delete her number. To forget about her. The rejection hurt pretty bad. Amanda bruised my ego like no other woman had ever done before.

"So, what's the plan, Detective?" Her sultry voice yanked me from my trip down memory lane. "Are you going to help me find my daughter, or what?"

"Wondering around town aimlessly in the middle of night won't get us anywhere, that's for sure." I gazed across the dirt road at the flashing neon signs of Yellow Jack Inn. It was a dive bar, a rustic, sooty concrete building mottled with dust, weathered and beaten by the harsh desert wind. The red painted awning was an odd contrast with the faded green planks accenting the lower exterior. It was a wide, ugly slab of crude, shamrock colored wood and cement. Whoever owned this place didn't give a fuck about looks.

Everything in this town was garbage, broken beyond repair—including the people, so a run-down piece of shit like Yellow Jack Inn fit in perfectly.

"You're not considering going in there, are you?" Amanda asked.

"You're coming with me," I said. "We need a lead. Someone in this town is bound to know something. Ask the right questions, bribe the right people, and you never know, we might get lucky."

"I doubt it." She plucked at the badge around my neck. "One look at that thing and they'll try to kill you, and _me_ by association."

"Stay close to me and you'll be just fine. I'll take care of you." I offered her my hand. Our fingers intertwined. She passed me back my cigarette. I drew deeply, savoring the last pull, then flicked the butt on the ground. "Let's go."

We crossed the dirt road to the bar. I was an inch away from the glass door before it swung open. A throng of rugged, beer-bellied bikers filled the doorway, the asshole in the front bumped me roughly aside with his shoulder.

"Pissant," he spat a glob of saliva at my boot as he brushed past me. "Stay out of our way, _boy._"

_Motherfucker_. The blatant disrespect sparked a seething, homicidal urge within me. I whirled around, fist clenched.

Amanda slipped in front of me, her hand splayed on my chest. "_Don't_. It's not worth it."

I glared holes into their backs as they hopped on their choppers and roared off.

"You're shaking," she spoke softly, caressing my cheek in an effort to soothe. "Calm down, sweetie. It's over."

There was a throbbing in my temples. I let out a deep breath, rubbing my forehead. _Gotta keep it together._

"Are you okay?" she pressed.

I gathered Amanda in my arms, taking comfort in her closeness. The quivering in my bones gradually subsided. "I'm good," I assured her, dropping a kiss in her hair.

Woulda been nice to linger in her embrace for a while, but we were pressed for time. Reluctantly, I drew away. Her finger curled around mine, we entered the bar.

The place was wrecked, like a drunken cyclone had rampaged through it. Wooden stools were flipped over, busted beer bottles and dishes were strewn across the floor, tables snapped in two.

"God," Amanda gasped. "What happened here?"

It was dead quiet, not a soul to be seen. No bartender. No nothing. I wade through the broken glass and litter to the crushed, lopsided dartboard drooping from the wall. It was composed of sisal fiber. Looked vintage, expensive. A shame someone smashed the fuck out of it.

Amanda hovered over a shattered terrarium. "What did they have in here—_eek!_" She jerked back, a snake slithered through the trash near her leg. "_Andre!_" Squealing, she scrambled over to me, hugging my arm. "There's a fucking snake in here!"

"Boa constrictor," I corrected. "They aren't aggressive…usually."

She shivered. "Usually?"

A haggard, worn face woman strolled in through the 'Employee's Only' side door, her blue jean jacket spotted with blood. Casually, she grabbed a stool off the floor and set it down at the bar. "My snake's a good girl," she reached over the counter and poured herself a shot of rum. "Don't bother her and she won't bother you."

A hand flew to Amanda's chest. "Ma'am, you're bleeding."

The woman knocked back her shot, a thin trail of blood dripped from her nostril. She didn't seem to care though. She refilled her glass and continued drinking. "If you're here to rob me like the other fellas did, make it quick, will ya?"

"Looks like they did more than rob you." I perched myself on a stool next to her. Amanda hovered over me, her stomach pressed against my back, hand on my shoulder. "You own this place?"

"What's left of it." My badge caught the woman's eye. "What you supposed to be? A cop? You don't look like one of the Sheriff's boys."

"Detective Jackson, I'm with the LSPD, and this is—"

"Amanda," she smiled wanly. "I'm looking for my daughter. Blonde hair, blue eyes, skinny, about yay high," she gestured to her neck, "tattoos of stars on her shoulder. Have you seen her?"

"Sorry, honey. The only petite blondes I've seen recently were on the TV screen." The woman sighed heavily. "A detective from the city shows up in Sandy Shores, walks into my dingy dive of all places…that missing girl must be important." She glanced at my bandaged chest. "Let me guess, the bikers are responsible for that?"

"The Sheriff is," I said. "He's quick with his revolver."

Her eyes widened. "Well, piss on me and tell me it's rainin'—goddamn Sheriff Peterson did that to you? I'm sorry, honey." She handed me a shot glass and filled it with whiskey. "That one's on the house. Should take the edge off, Detective."

I downed it quick.

"Name's Janet," the woman said. "You're legally obligated to find the ruffians who fucked up my place, ain't you, Detective?"

_As if I didn't have enough shit to deal with already. _"Slow down, Janet, I need to know what happened here first."

"Take a look around, moron. My entire fucking bar is in shambles!" She beat her fist against the counter. "Used to be a nice place too, until those tacky fucking bikers showed up. They barged in here and tried to extort me for every penny I got. Said I had to pay a protection fee, that they'd tear my bar apart if I didn't give 'em what they wanted."

"You refused?" Amanda asked.

"You bet your ass I did," Janet sneered. "Someone 'oughta stand up to those troublemakers. Couldn't stop them from swipin' my money out the safe and trashing the place anyway. Tried to phone the Sheriff, but every call went straight to voicemail. I'm guessin' he's laying low, worthless dog. I would be too if I put a bullet in a lawman from the city."

"It ain't right," Janet continued. "Them bikers been usin' Sandy Shores as their playground, making a ruckus up and down the street for days, and the Sheriff's department ain't done a damn thing to stop it. Bunch of snakes in the grass, I tell ya."

Amanda clasped my arm and dragged me aside. Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "I say we charge into the Sheriff's office and demand answers. We have the right to know what the fuck is going on here!"

Storming into the Sheriff's office and beating the shit out of him was really satisfying to imagine, but realistically, not a very good idea. I went to war with the Sheriff's department recently and barely survived, _with_ Olly's and Dave Norton's help. I had a grenade launcher. And my ballistic shield…

I miss my shield.

"The Sheriff's department isn't obligated to tell us anything, Mandy," I muttered. "They shot me, took your daughter—clearly they don't give a fuck about the law, or what's right or wrong. We go in there asking questions and they'll kill us. We're outnumbered and we can't call for backup."

"You're hurt," she added, rubbing her forehead anxiously. "Oh god, Andre, what are we going to do?"

"Trevor Philips," Janet blurted. "If you're lookin' for someone to help you take down The Lost MC and the Sheriff's department by brute force, that gasoline huffin' psychopath is your best bet."

"Trevor Phillips?" I winced. Saying that name put a bad taste in my mouth. I recalled him being strapped into a stretcher and transported to the hospital. Judging by the horror stories I've heard about Mr. Philips, I doubt those poor doctors and nurses were able to keep him there long.

Amanda's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me? Trevor is a meth head, a monster, he's _insane_—a literal walking, breathing disaster. He wouldn't help us. He'd only make things worse."

"Oh, trust me, I know how much of a fuckup Trevor Philips is," Janet chuckled. "He's ruthless. Unhinged. I think that kind of temperament is exactly what this town needs right now." She poured herself another drink. "Trevor's been bumping heads with the Sheriff's department for as long as I can remember. And his relationship with The Lost MC? Hatred ain't strong enough a word to describe it."

I rubbed my chin. "The enemy of our enemy is our friend, right?"

"That's right, Detective," Janet said. "If we can all pull our heads out of our asses and work together, we can make some real change around here. Trevor spends most of his time at his drug lab, I can take you there. Ain't no point stickin' 'round here. Give me a sec'." She stood and disappeared through the side door.

Amanda glared at me, her hands on her hips. "Andre, this is a horrible idea. We shouldn't get Trevor involved. He's going to ruin everything."

I frowned. "Everything is already fucked. How much worse can it get?"

"Both of us dying comes to mind." She blew out a breath and threw her hands in the air. "We both know what Trevor is capable of. He has no consideration for human life whatsoever. If he murders and cooks us for dinner, who the hell is gonna help my daughter?"

"No one is going to eat us, baby. Relax." I gave her a playful smack on the butt. "Besides, if he was going to cook someone, it'd be me, not you. You barely got any meat on your bones, it'd be a waste."

"Comforting," she rolled her eyes.

"But you still look good. If I were a cannibal, I'd eat you."

"Andre, please. I'm really not in the mood for jokes right now." She turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Trevor scares me. This is serious. I don't feel comfortable around him."

I slid in behind her, my arm hitched around her waist, pulling her closer to me. I promised to take care of her, and I meant it. "I've been keeping you and your family safe for years. I won't stop now, hon."

She leaned against me, her head tipped back to touch my shoulder. "Does Tracey know? About us? Our past?"

"No," I nuzzled my cheek against hers. "But I've been meaning to come clean though, about everything."

"She doesn't need to know, Detective."

"Me and your daughter are friends now. We work cases together, she'll find out eventually."

"Speaking of working cases, don't think I forgot about your federal agent buddy, Mr. Smith." She clutched my wrist. "When this is all over, you have _a lot_ of explaining to do."

"Mixing business with pleasure, Detective?" Janet appeared. She pitched me a brown leather jacket and gray T-shirt. "There, put that on. A body like yours is a sight for sore eyes, but I reckon I've seen enough muscle for one day."

"Thanks." The jacket was dusty, but nothing a few pats couldn't fix. And it smelled okay. It was a tight fit, but I managed to shrug on the clothes.

Amanda smiled at me with approval. "You look good in leather."

"You be careful with my daddy's lucky jacket, ya hear? It's a family heirloom." She went behind the bar counter, dipped down for a second, and rose with a bolt-action rifle. Amanda shivered, her grasp on me tightened.

"I was hesitant to use this earlier," Janet ran a hand over the long, polished wood barrel, admiring the weapon with her eyes. "But I ain't gonna make the same mistake twice. If any of those biker boys have the nerve to show their ugly mugs while we're out there, I'm gunning the bastards down. This is my town and I got every right to defend it. You can arrest me after, Detective. I ain't got nothing left to lose. I don't give a damn."

She wanted blood and I didn't blame her. That rifle though…it was almost bigger than she was. "You sure you know how to use that thing?"

"I've been hunting game with this baby longer than you've been alive, son." She worked the bolt of the rifle to load the first round. "Time to pay Crazy Trevor a visit."

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**I love you guys for reading! Leave a review please! And make sure to check out my tumblr, Anboringday, I post gta5 related stuff and fanart as well! AND snippets of upcoming chapters BEFORE they are released. Yes you heard that right, so follow me guys ;) See you next week! **


	18. Chapter 18

**Guys, I'm back! I know I've been gone for a bit, but you know, writer's block, procrastination, laziness...Sorry! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!**

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**Cadillac**

The wind howled and crows squawked like the opener of some horror movie, rocking the maze of rickety trailers and rusty bungalows. Although the dirt roads of Sandy Shores seemed abandoned of all life, the streetlamps shined stubbornly against the night. Every now and then, the barking of dogs would echo from the dark. Sometimes gunshots. And occasionally, screaming too.

The entire town was in turmoil, people suffering and dying in the shadows. The slew of bikes occupying the road gave me a pretty good hunch who was behind the madness. Amanda held onto my jacket so tightly, the leather creaked. Our guide, Janet, kept moving, brushing off the cries of pain all around us. She seemed unbothered. It didn't feel right. Every strange groan and high-pitched shriek we ignored nagged at my conscience like a toothache.

I stopped. So did Amanda. Once Janet noticed we weren't following, she pivoted. "What the hell y'all waiting for? We ain't got all night."

Clenching my teeth, I muttered, "You deaf or something, lady? Your neighbors are being tortured all around you."

She shrugged. "Trevor's methlab is just up the road. Best we not get distracted, Detective." Her posture was rigid, thin features tight with determination. Her eyes were focused, cold. No compassion. Completely unfazed by the death and commotion tearing her town apart.

Janet's cool, heartless demeanor was suspicious. Earlier in the bar, she was hell-bent on defending the town from the Lost MC, extracting revenge on the dudes that wronged her regardless of the consequences. But her actions didn't match her words. People who talk a good game and fail to deliver were bad news. Couldn't trust them.

From what I've seen, everyone in this town was fucking nuts. What made this grumpy old lady any different?

Amanda took a step toward Janet. I yanked her back.

Janet's dark eyes narrowed. "What's the matter, Detective? Got cold feet?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Amanda smothered my lips with her palm. Flashing an apologetic smile at Janet, she asked, "Can you give us a moment, please?"

"Sure, why not?" Janet shrugged. "It's not like we're standing in the middle of a town overrun with bloodthirsty gangbangers or nothin'. Folks are dying all 'round us but please, take all the time y'all need."

"Easy with the sarcasm," Amanda muttered as she pulled me aside. "Andre, what's the matter with you?"

I watched Janet intently from over Amanda's shoulder. "I don't trust her."

"Strolling into her bar and asking her for help was all your idea, remember?" She touched my chest. "Honey, you're being paranoid."

I rubbed my chin. Me? _Paranoid?_ No, I'd argue careful. Being a skeptic kept me alive, it was the reason I was half decent at my job. Couldn't remember the last time my gut instinct was wrong—

The harsh noise of tires scraping against dirt made me wince. A white van streaked by, riddled with bullet holes, black exhaust fume surged from the hood. It swerved out of control and rammed into a palm tree. The impact flung shards of metal from the exterior, the bumpers caved in, the headlights shattered. _Damn._

The car door jerked open and a lanky, stringy-limbed dude rolled out. He stood, wobbling about in a daze. I squinted, blood pounded in my brain. There was a familiar face at the top of that beanpole figure. He was as skinny as I remembered, so thin his clothes hung off him awkwardly. He grew a couple feet taller since high school, his baby face narrowed and hardened over the years.

Tattooed from the neck down, Lamar Davis was a grown ass man now. Wow, time flies.

"Fucking hoodlum," Janet spat, her voice deep, and laced with hatred. She took aim at Lamar. _Oh shit. _I lunged for the barrel. **_Bam!_** The bullet missed, penetrating the smoking van instead.

"What the hell," the bitter old bitch tried to wrangle the rifle out of my grip. "Let go!"

This lady wasn't in the right state of mind to be handling a firearm. Would she have labelled me a thug and shot me too if I didn't have my badge in plain view? Fuck yeah, she would've. My limbs vibrated, my insides boiling. People and their goddamn prejudices…nothing in this fucked up world got under my skin worse than bigotry.

"Give me the gun," I said through gritted teeth.

"No!" she argued. "This rifle is mine, and it's my God-given right to use it whenever I see fit. Don't force my hand, Detective—"

The butt of a gun hit the back of her head. With a stiff groan, she slumped to the ground, out like a light. Well, that's one way to deal with a disgruntled civilian. A stainless-steel pistol gleamed, the lanky man holding us at gunpoint had a wild, frenzied look in his eyes. His nose was broken, blood and abrasions streaked his face and arms, his clothes stained with dirt.

Sandy Shores must've put him through hell, just like the rest of us.

"Y'all rednecks finna regret fucking with me," Lamar spat.

Amanda squeezed my arm, cowering behind me. "Put the gun down, we're not crazy like the others!"

I chuckled. "You gonna shoot me, L?"

His gaze shifted to me, wide and bloodshot. For a moment, there was a flicker in his fevered glare. "Oh shit. Dre?"

"In the flesh. How's it going, buddy? What're you doing here?"

Lamar beamed, lowering the gun, the hostility in his eyes faded. "Oh, you know, the usual—I'm just another nigga tryna make some bread in the land of opportunity, you feel me? Now give your boy some love!" He grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. "Goddamn, what they been feeding you overseas? You beefy as a motherfucker, man, wide as all outside."

I smiled. "The rations had a lot of protein, I guess."

Amanda's brows furrowed in confusion. "You two know each other?"

"We grew up together," I said, eyeing the hand-crafted carving of buffalo on the rifle's wood stock. Janet took pretty good care of this gun, old model, probably oiled it regularly to prevent rust. "His mom and my mom were friends; we didn't get to really know each other until high school though."

"We used to be tight, until this bitch ass nigga up and left without a word." Lamar glowered, his friendly demeanor shifted way too quick for comfort. "Threw me for a motherfuckin' loop too, 'cause I thought we were homies. Forum Drive niggas for life. Turns out, he don't know shit 'bout the concept of friendship. Just a bitch like everybody else."

My eye twitched. It's only been a minute since we reunited after years apart, and he was already bringing up bullshit from the past. I wasn't in the mood to argue, and we had been through enough drama tonight already.

I sucked up my pride and grumbled an apology. "I'm sorry."

"You can take that weak fucking apology and shove it up yo' ass, nigga. Fuck you." He brushed past me roughly.

"Hey!" I called after him. "Where you going?"

"To find FC!"

I rubbed at my pounding temple. Just hearing his crabby best friend's name was enough to give me a headache. And of course, he was here. Wherever Franklin went, Lamar wasn't too far behind. Unfortunately, those two were practically inseparable.

Amanda touched my shoulder. "What does FC stand for?"

"Franklin Clinton," I said. She stiffened, a hand flew to her chest. "What? You know him?'

"Yes. He married my daughter."

I grimaced. "Small world."

So Franklin was Tracey's mystery husband. If his mood swings were still as destructive as they were in high school, ain't no surprise she was cheating on him. That dude had a mean chip on his shoulder, hot-headed and easily provoked. He had respect for no one, not his peers, not the teachers, not even his aunt—that poor lady was the only one left in his family dumb enough to put up with his bad ass attitude.

He treated my sister like shit when they were together. Lying. Always lying. Always scheming. Now Tracey had to deal with the drama. People like him don't change.

Falling in love with violent criminals seemed to run in the family. Sad situation.

But why am I learning about this _now?_ Olly and his fucking secrets…he coulda told me Franklin was Tracey's husband. Not that it mattered because it's really none of my business. I didn't care for gossip, but it's the principle that annoyed the shit outta me. I told him everything. Was it too much to expect the same damn courtesy in return?

"If Franklin is here, we have to find him," Amanda said. "He could help us get Tracey back."

"Sure." I watched Lamar waddle down the street. He was beaten and bloody with a bad limp and was getting nowhere fast.

"_Watch after my boy, please…"_ His mother's plea echoed in my mind, her weeping voice clear as the evening I heard it nine years ago. He was in rough shape that summer night too, some Ballas jumped him on the way back from my house. If I didn't see it go down from outside my window and intervene…we shared a bad ass whooping that day. I was benched from football for three months with a dislocated shoulder and elbow fracture, but we lived, barely, he got to see his mom again. And the way her eyes sparkled when Lamar told her how bad I got fucked up trying to save him, I'd never forget how grateful she was.

I swore to keep him out of trouble. Well try to, anyway. I never made good on that promise, mostly because he's got a big ass mouth and a couple of leaks in his think-tank. Things got bad between us and the Ballas, and I ran away from our problems instead of dealing with them.

I won't make that mistake again.

I grabbed Janet's unconscious body and threw her over my shoulder.

"You're taking her with us?" Amanda asked.

"She'll die if we leave her here," I said. With the most beautiful lady in the world clinging to my arm, I set off after Lamar, taking his side. "You don't look so good, man."

Lamar rolled his eyes. "Like you give a fuck."

"I do. We're friends."

"When word got 'round on the streets that you got deployed to fight the white man's war, everybody in the hood thought you were good as dead, nigga. Now here you are, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, an officer of the motherfuckin' law." He glanced at my badge, wrinkling his nose as if it stunk. "Damn, you really switched sides, my nig'—working for the dudes who oppressed you and yo' ancestors for centuries. They throw a bone and yo' obedient dog ass is ready to jump—"

He stumbled. I caught him before he hit the ground. "You're mad I left, I get it. Shit got crazy and I dipped. Ain't proud of it, but I had to."

He pulled away from me. "It's been years, dawg, and not once you picked up the phone to call a nigga. I know you was going through some shit but damn, you coulda sent a text, or an email. They got mailboxes overseas, you coulda wrote my ass a letter."

"I considered the whole letter thing, but uh, it seemed like a waste of time."

"What? Why?"

"Because you can't read."

"Leave my learning disabilities out of this, bitch. You know what? Tanisha was right. You forgot where the fuck you came from, bureaucrat cock-munchin' ass nigga."

I winced. "Tanisha said all that?"

"That's what she said word for word, fool. She went on and on 'bout yo' lack of loyalty to the hood. Turns out, being a trifling motherfucker is part of yo' genetic makeup. She dropped Franklin's fat ass and bounced first chance she got. Gold-diggin' ass bitch latched onto some lame doctor dude like a parasite."

"Call my sister out her name just one more time, I dare you, motherfucker."

He threw his head back and laughed, blood spewed from his nose. "_Ha-ha!_ Real funny, nigga. You ain't gon' do shit."

I grinned. "Don't tempt me, fucker."

Amanda pulled out some napkins from her purse. "Here, honey. For your nose."

"Nah, girl. I don't need that shit. I'm a real one, a motherfuckin' soldier. If a nigga is bleedin', let him bleed, a'ight? Don't bother me none. The only thing I use tissues for is to wipe doo-doo off the back of my black ass—"

"Alright, alright, enough of that shit." I grabbed the napkins and slipped in front of him. "Don't move."

"Ay," he cringed. "What you 'bout to do?"

"I'm gonna push your nose back into place, and it's gonna hurt like hell. You ready?"

"Aw, hell nah," he took a step back. "Nigga, you crazy? I ain't ready for shit."

"Lamar, your nose is leaking like a fucking faucet, man." I shoved the napkins against his chest. "Do something about it."

"A'ight, nigga, damn. Stop nagging me. You worse than my momma." He applied pressure to his nose, soaking up the blood with the tissue. "You happy?"

"That depends. You breathing okay?"

Lamar nodded, his shoulders heaving as he took deep, audible breaths through his mouth. I frowned. He was putting up a front, trying to act tough despite the pain. It was too dark to really judge how severe his injuries were. Hopefully he could hold on long enough for us to find some help. Knowing our luck, that probably wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

Amanda leaned over to whisper in my ear, "He needs a doctor."

"I know, baby. I know. He's gonna be okay, and so will Tracey. We'll find her, and we'll all be back in Los Santos before morning." I reassured her with a soft smile, my honeyed words laced with all the confidence I could muster. But deep down, there was a lump in my throat and a heavy feeling in my stomach. Her daughter's odds of survival were sinking by the minute. Maybe Olly found her by now. He was capable, and had a lot less baggage holding him down…

"You bastards," Janet groaned, shifting uncomfortably, her voice weak as a whisper. "Hold me… like a gentleman…would ya, Detective?"

She was a quick-tempered bigot, but I didn't have the heart to treat an elder badly. I passed Lamar the rifle and lowered the old bat from my shoulder, holding her petite body in my arms. "That better?"

"My head's hurtin' like nobody's business, throat's dryer than a haystack…" She coughed. "My kickers feel like jelly…"

"We should stomp a hole in her dried-up ass for tryna shoot me," Lamar grumbled.

She pointed a shaky finger at him. "I've seen you before, boy, conductin' business with them lowdown bikers. Drug deals, I reckon. Your kind brings nothin' but filth and disease to this town—"

Lamar slapped her across the face. **_Clap!_** The fierce, backhanded blow put her right back to sleep.

"Jesus," Amanda winced at the red welt on Janet's cheek.

I glared at him. "L…"

He stared back at me in direct challenge, without shame. "What, fool? Bitch deserved it."

"No need to stoop to her level. We're better than that." I turned, and we continued our trek down the road. Shit, I forgot how much of a loose cannon Lamar was when agitated. "Still slinging dope?"

"Gotta make bread somehow," he replied. "Let me remind you in case you forgot, tryna survive in the projects ain't easy."

"Just 'cause you live in the hood doesn't mean you can't grow. Peddling drugs is nasty, dead-end work that pays nickels and dimes. Ain't worth dying over, L."

"You got any other ideas? Somebody gotta pay my momma's bills, nigga. You ain't been around to help."

I sighed. No point wasting my breath. He's gonna do what he wants anyway. "There's more than enough crackheads in Los Santos to go around. Why risk your life in Blaine County?"

"'Cause I'm an entrepreneur, a legitimate businessman. I wanna expand my shit outside of the city. My product is in high demand, nigga. Everybody want a piece of Lamar Davis' crack rock."

"Motherfucker, you insane? When's the last time you looked in the mirror? No one's buying shit from you here."

"Being a government snitch and kissin' the ass of the powers-that-be turned you into a real pessimist _biatch_, huh? The Dre I used to know had big dreams and was down for anything—home invasions, street fights, drug deals, murkin' fools."

"Sounds like Andre was a real menace to society back in the day," Amanda hugged my arm. "Can't say I'm surprised. A hardboiled detective like him had to grow up hard."

"He was like a rabid dog, girl. Runnin' down on any fool who fucked with me, his sister, or his lil' bro. He was a cool dude to kick it with, when he wasn't playin' football or fuckin' around with that weird ass insect collection."

Amanda's brows shot up. "You had an insect collection?"

Oh fuck. She did not need to know about my fire-ant farm. I evaded the question. "I'm not that person anymore. I grew up."

A bit further along the dirt path, the outlines of a log cabin emerged from the dark. The polished redwood glowed, newly built, radiant and shining with a colonnade of slender arches aligning the east and west sides. Above the colonnade was a terrace, the sheer curtains over the French windows billowed in the wind. Smacked in the middle of a town full of rusty trailers and broken-down shacks, the structure was a weird, out of place embodiment of wealth and stability.

Lamar peered through the tall, wrought iron gate. "Ay, Dre, look." His eyes were glued to the glistening white pickup truck parked in the cobblestone driveway.

"What're you going to do?" Amanda asked.

"I dunno 'bout y'all," Lamar said, "but I'm finna get me a new whip."

"No," I protested. "That's theft, man. You can't do that—"

He shot me a glare. "What you gon' do? Arrest me? We need this, Dre."

I went silent. Stealing a car would make getting around town a lot easier, even if it did put my badge on the line. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and an unreported crime was technically, uh, not a crime at all, I guess.

Shit, I'm starting to sound like Olly.

"The place is big," I said. "We don't know how many people are in there. Maybe we should do some scouting first, see if we can draw them out—"

"Boostin' shit is my specialty, my nig'. I got this." He passed Amanda the rifle, scanned the area with a few quick glances, and then hopped the fence with surprising grace. Lowering to a crouch, he stuck to the shadows as he soundlessly skulked through the trimmed grass, his gaze probed the house windows for witnesses and potential threats. Apparently, this wasn't his first rodeo.

"Who's house is this?" Amanda trembled, straining her eyes against the surrounding darkness. "What if someone's watching?"

"Too late to back out now." I glanced at the hand painted mailbox of daisies that was practically bursting with letters. There was a name etched across the silver-plated plaque.

_Tucker Peterson._

That piece of shit fucking Sheriff lived here. Would be nice to take a look around, do some snooping. Tracey could be in there, or maybe a lead—something, anything that might help us figure out what the fuck was going on.

The gate was shut tight, it didn't have a handle. No lock. It probably opened and closed remotely. Damn. "I gotta get this gate open," I gazed at Amanda. She was deathly pale. "You okay?"

She was quiet, slender body tense, chewing her plump and pretty red lower lip. _So fine. So distractingly beautiful. _

"Baby," I nuzzled my forehead against hers. "Look at me."

Her wet, sparkling eyes found mine.

"I need you to be strong," I said. "Don't you fall apart on me. Not now. Not ever."

"It's hard. My daughter…" She let out a whimper, weak and devoid of hope, sad sounding enough to make my chest tighten and ache, caving in like a weight had dropped down on me from the sky.

Amanda was hurting, and that hurt was cutting deep into me. Stung like a bitch. That saying 'love is pain' was really starting to resonate with me.

She clutched my jacket. "What if my daughter is dead and we're wasting our time?"

"No, no…" My gut twisted in knots. "Baby girl, don't say things like that. We're not too late."

"You're always saying things I want to hear, Detective," she sniffed. "Whenever I was sad, lonely, you'd make it better. You're a good guy, you're such a good guy…"

She pressed small kisses to my lips, her manicured fingers brushed over my chest. I tensed. I still had Janet in my arms for fuck's sake. My gaze shifted to Lamar. He smashed in the car window with his elbow, the shattering of the glass made a shitload of noise. There was something on the terrace, something dark. Looked like a shadow, but when I blinked, it was gone. Weird.

Amanda cupped my chin and tilted my head, forcing me to look at her. "Talk to me. Tell me something you've never told me before."

Getting into that cabin was my main priority, but Mandy was desperate, falling apart at the seams. She needed me. "Back when I was a Marine, my unit and I rolled up on this Taliban compound—"

"No war stories, please. I hate those."

"Okay," I muttered, a little offended, but I did my best not to show it. Why are women so complicated? "Tell me what you wanna hear then."

She leaned against the gate, and struck a seductive pose, revealing her long, slender neck. Moonlight shimmered over her milky skin, giving it a faint, exotic cast. I grew rigid admiring her curves, she looked fine as hell in those leggings. And she wasn't wearing panties underneath…_Mmm._

She ran a hand through her dark hair, and it fell around her shoulders like a mantle of silk. "Do you think I'm sexy, Detective?"

She was tempting me. It was working. "Course I do. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Her eyes swept over me, a smirk touched her sensual lips. "I want you to kiss me. Hold me. Help me forget all this craziness, if only for a little while." She glanced at unconscious Janet. "But your hands are full. Don't you ever get tired of playing the hero?"

"Not for you, I don't," I put on my best smile. "Have I ever failed you, ma'am?"

Her downturned expression cracked into a quiet giggle. "Not yet. Every job I hired you for, I paid upfront. I figured the money was a good motivator."

"Well, you can pay me half now, and half later once I'm done pulling my boot out the Sheriff's ass and getting your daughter back. But you know, it was never about the money. Being your private detective was the highlight of my career." Lowering my head, I kicked at a rock on the ground. "With the exception of all the blood and dead bodies."

"Are you saying you would've done my dirty work for free? You'd let me use you, Detective?"

"I'd let you use me every damn day, and I'd love every second of it." I leaned in to kiss her forehead. "I never gave up on you, hon. Even after you left, I knew you'd come back to me. You were my first love, I wanted to be your last—"

Sucking in a shallow breath, she grimaced, her nose wrinkled. "I-I was your first?"

A hot wave of embarrassment washed over me. Her harsh reaction made me wanna curl up in a ball and disappear. _Fuck me._ I pinched my lips into a fine line. I was being too honest, too vulnerable, spilling raw emotion to a married woman like the dumb motherfucker that I am, and of course, it backfired. If I kept this shit up, I'd scare her away like I did before.

I know what she was thinking. Michael, Michael, _Michael_…fuck that guy. If he was so much of a better choice than I am, then where the fuck was he right now?

_Fuck this._ I'm done wasting time. I need to get in that goddamn cabin. Burying my wounded pride somewhere deep down inside, I turned away from Amanda and gently set Janet on the ground, her back propped against the gate. "Give me the rifle."

She obeyed. "Andre, I'm sorry. I…"

Her voice was shaky, teary. Although it hurt ignoring her, I managed to do it. I had to. Rifle hanging over my shoulder by the sling, I scaled the gate. "Keep an eye on the old lady," I told Amanda before leaving to find Lamar. He was in the front seat of the pickup truck, toying with the ignition wires.

I leaned into the broken window, and whispered, "Hey, buddy."

"There's bodies in the backyard," Lamar murmured.

I furrowed my brows. "What did you just say?"

"There's a pile of dead motherfuckers in the backyard," he repeated. "Probably the fools that lived here. Someone shot the shit outta them and dumped them out back. Convenient for us, we ain't gotta rush if there ain't nobody left."

"Okay," I glanced at the front door. It was open to a crack, the doorknob ripped from the redwood and lying on the welcome mat. "That's…sad."

Lamar shrugged. "It is what it is, dawg."

I tapped my foot against the dirt. "Amanda is waiting on us. Think you can get this car started anytime soon?"

"Fuck you," he snapped, his teeth bared. "This shit harder than it looks, nigga."

"Quit bitching, I'm sure you're doing fine." I pat his shoulder. "Let me help, we can figure it out together—"

He pushed me away. "Keep yo' greasy mitts off me, fool. We ain't friends, you 'yes-master' ass nigga."

"Keep that same energy, cranky little bitch, and I'll throw your ass in the slammer for breaking and entering. Respect my authority, trashy motherfucker."

"Yeah, yeah. Go choke on a dick, snitch nigga, I'm busy."

I smothered a laugh. "Alright, I'm sorry. I take it back, you're not trashy, or cranky, just misunderstood. Odd. Some would argue batshit crazy—"

He glared at me. "How many different ways I gotta tell you to get the fuck on, Dre?"

"Hurts my feelings when you talk to me like that, L. Don't dismiss me. All I want is some love."

"Since when did you trade yo' dick in for a pussy?" Lamar shook his head. "Maybe I did love yo' soft, sentimental ass at one point. But that was the past, a'ight? You ain't been treatin' your homies right. You've been neglecting me, nigga."

"I'll make it up to you by getting that gate open, sound good?"

"If you gon' do some shit, homie, make it quick. We ain't got all day. Pretty sure them old ass white women you left outside the fence ain't finna last long without you babysitting them."

"You just focus on getting that car running—"

"Hold up," he dipped low and handed me a locked briefcase. "Found this in the backseat."

"Huh…wonder what's in here." I drew my knife and began prying at the lock. It was a tough one to crack, the bolt wouldn't budge. "Ah, shit. This might take a while."

"Go open that somewhere else, copper. I'm tired of lookin' at yo' ugly ass face."

"Shut the fuck up, you love me."

"Sorry for crushing yo' dreams, but Lamar Davis don't love nobody—"

"Except his mom." I nudged him. "Word on the street is you're a punk ass momma's boy."

"So what if I love my momma?" His face brightened with a bemused smile. "She good to me, nigga. Most bitches only tolerate me for a few minutes before they want my ass gone. My momma though? She held me down for nine months, popped me out her coochie, let me suck her titties 'til they was raw, dusty and dry, bleedin sometimes—it's been over twenty years and she still takin' care of my ass. Bedtime stories, milk and cookies, she even tuck a nigga in at night. She love me, fool. Ain't no bitch in this world that can compare to my black ass momma, you feel me?"

Damn. My mom hasn't tucked me in at night since, well, I was a baby. _Maybe._ Not that I remembered. I grinned. "You think your momma would let me suck on her titties too?"

He lunged forward, trapping me in a headlock. Woulda been easy to shrug him off, he had an arm like a toothpick, but I let him feel strong for old time's sake. "My bad, man," I uttered. "Chill. You can have your momma's titties, I don't want 'em."

"Why? They ain't white enough for you?"

"Nah, they're saggy—"

His grip on my neck tightened.

I caught his wrist and peeled him off me. "Motherfucker, relax. I'm just playin'."

"Fuck you, Dre, this ain't a game, nigga." He snatched the watch off my wrist. "Nice. This a Crowex?"

I tried to grab it back. He quickly scooted away. "Hey, careful with that shit. You have any idea how much that costs?"

"'Bout fifteen stacks, right? How the fuck you afford some shit like this on a cop salary?"

"Budgeting, bitch. Ever heard of it?"

He smoothed a finger over the diamonds. "Lying ass nigga."

"It was a gift from my partner, dickhead."

"Who the fuck yo' partner is? Poppy Mitchel?"

"Whatever, man. Gimme my motherfucking watch back—"

"Hey," Amanda appeared beside me.

Lamar and I peered at the gate, then exchanged glances at one another.

She folded her arms across her chest. "What?"

I uttered, "Did you—"

"Hop the gate, girl?" Lamar finished my sentence.

"Sure I did," she said proudly, a confident smirk plastered on her face. "Think I can't keep up with you boys because I'm a girl?"

"No," Lamar and I blurted in unison.

"Good. So, what's taking you two so long to get us out of here?"

"Lamar can't start the car," I said.

"Dre's too busy fucking 'round with that lock," Lamar shook his head. "Dude was supposed to open the gate ten minutes ago, but he got the attention span of a squirrel."

"Maybe if you didn't put me in a goddamn headlock, I'd be done by now." I gazed at Amanda. "Where's Janet?"

"Oh," she clenched her teeth. "So about that…Janet left."

"_She left?_" My jaw tightened. "What do you mean?"

"She got up and walked away. Didn't say a word." She sighed. "What did you expect me to do, Detective? Go after her?"

"Who gives a fuck?" Lamar said. "Wrinkly bitch was dead weight anyway. Hope she stay gone."

"She was kind of a racist, so…" Amanda toyed with the hem of her jacket. "I don't really miss her."

"That lady was a prime example of what Sandy Shores has to offer," I said. "Senseless rage, cheap booze, and bigotry." I gave Lamar the briefcase back. Shit wouldn't budge, and I've wasted enough time fucking around with it. "I'm gonna take a look around the house, be back soon."

Amanda clasped my arm. "Can we talk?"

The deck was stacked against me since the day we met. I was tired of longing after someone I could never have. It was borderline degrading at this point. My self-respect nonexistent. I couldn't get her horrified expression out of my head. "When this is all over, I think it's best if we part ways. For good."

On the slight chance that it might change my mind, I didn't stick around for her reaction. She was way too pretty, and I was way too easily lured in.

I drew away, sticking close to the shadows. Unfortunately, Lamar was right about the bodies in the yard. There was no telling how long they were here, half buried in the dirt, faces covered with mud. Two young ladies, an old man, a kid. Jesus, they were a family. Why would someone do this? _What the fuck is wrong with this town? _Everyone was out of their fucking minds.

Who were they? The Sheriff's family? Who killed them?

I did a quick inspection of the corpses, making doubly sure none resembled Tracey, and then pressed on. I wished I could have investigated further, but there wasn't any time. I entered the cabin through the backdoor. It was dark inside, but there were obvious signs of a struggle, blood all over the hardwood floors, rustic tables and chairs flipped over, bullet holes in the walls.

On the living room coffee table was a portrait of the Sheriff and his family. The Petersons. Husband, wife, and three kids. All of them blonde-haired with bubbly smiles. They must've been a happy family at some point. His children were dumped in the yard now, sick fucker probably murdered them, but where was his wife?

If he could do this to his family, God knows what did to Tracey.

I'm jumping to conclusions. The Sheriff was a suspect for sure, but the Lost MC could be responsible for this all the same. They were destructive, homicidal, and didn't give a damn about anyone but themselves. But what was the motive? Why did these people have to die?

Above the white stone fireplace was my ballistic shield, hanging like a trophy. I stared at it, my heart pounding against my chest. He left me for dead, and instead of getting rid of the evidence, he kept my favorite piece of gear as a keepsake. A memento. I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or pissed.

I reclaimed my shield and hugged it close. We've been apart for so long, and it was still so beautiful, regardless of all the shrapnel embedded in the plating.

Sheriff Peterson done fucked up today. I got my baby back. I'm looking forward to smashing his head in with it.

"Boo!" Lamar jumped out from the shadows.

I rolled my eyes. "You got me shaking in my boots, man. Where's Amanda?"

"She chillin' in the whip, man, I got the engine roaring like a motherfucker." He gazed at my shield. "What you got there?"

"A shield. It blocks things and flattens nut sacks. Had it since the war."

"A'ight, nigga. Whatever. So what's good with the gate?"

"I'm investigating the crime scene, dude. Give me a sec'." Rifle raised, I followed a bloody shoe trail into a nearby bedroom. The footprints were small, abnormally tiny.

"We ain't got time for none of this bullshit." He swiped an antique clock off the nightstand. "Yo, you think this worth somethin'?"

"Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?" I swatted it out of his hand. "You outta your mind? Don't touch anything."

"I'm getting real tired of you nagging me, Dre." He shoved me aside and began rummaging through the drawers. "I'm tryna get paid, nigga. Let me do what I gotta do."

_Good fucking Lord. _"Fine, leave your fingerprints everywhere. I'll be sure to visit your jailcell daily to let you know how much of a dickhead you are."

Lamar froze. "You gon' let your homie get locked up?"

I reached into my pocket for my leather gloves and tossed it to him. "There. If you're gonna steal, be smart about it, alright? I'll clean up the spots you touched before we leave."

"Good looking out, G."

"If you find the remote for the gate, let me know."

Lamar went from drawer to drawer, searching the bedrooms, cabinets, and closets. While he did that, I searched the home for anything suspicious. There was mostly just blood, and more blood. The Petersons didn't care for modern technology, no computers or cell phones. They did have a corroded rotary phone though, but no dial tone, the wires cut.

Found a relic of a cigar box in the master bedroom, hidden in a storage chest at the foot of the bed. How old was this thing? _Republica De Cuba _was carved into the wood. Fancy font. Vivid artwork too. Looked like it was worth a small fortune, the tobacco still intact, the fat rolls neat, seemingly untouched. One look at this and a collector would probably pop a blood vessel.

Normally I wouldn't tamper with people's belongings at a crime scene. I liked my job, wasn't desperate for a quick payday. But Lamar on the other hand…him and his mom could really use the money. Maybe it'd be enough to get them outta the hood, somewhere safer.

So I swiped it. I am officially a thief again.

There was a prayer room upstairs, wood crosses nailed to the walls, religious candles crowding the floor. Creepy stuff. For a god-fearing man, the Sheriff sure was a sinner. The worst kind.

And I thought Otto was bad—

I froze as cold metal pressed against my back. "Don't move, m-mister," a shrill, babyish voice demanded from behind. "Or I'll—I'll hurt you like the others."

Very carefully, very slowly, I gazed over my shoulder. It was a child. A little brown-skinned girl in blue, blood-soaked overalls holding a pistol, no older than the age of five, she was missing most of her teeth. Once I saw that afro of reddish kinky coils and the dark freckles splashed across her little face, the realization of her identity hit me hard. Real hard. I could hardly breathe or articulate myself.

Struggling to find the right words, I burst out with, "_Nancy?_ Nancy Jones?"

Her big, hazel doe eyes watched me intently. "Hi. Are you my daddy?"

* * *

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